Coincidence
by Ithilmir
Summary: The Doctor has landed in 1809 and his latest quarry has gone to ground aboard an RN frigate, but he also finds a familiar face. Chapter 7 now up.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Firstly and foremostly, this story does not contain a chameleon arch. There are canonical reasons why not, but mainly it wouldn't be much of a story seeing as it's been done before and very recently. If you want to find out what happens, read the story.

I don't consider this to be much of a crossover. Three Age of Sail characters, Captain Richard Bolitho (_Bolitho_ series by Alexander Kent), Lieutenant William Bush (_Hornblower_ Granada series) and Lieutenant Jack Deverel (_To the Ends of the Earth _by William Golding are included in the cast, but that's about it; everything else pretty much resembles an historical episode of _Who_.

* * *

><p><strong>Lisbon, Portugal ~ 1809<strong>

**Chapter 1**

"Come along, Charley, don't dawdle!" the Doctor cried.

Charley sighed in irritation, hitching her skirts up above her ankles and thus unintentionally attracting many a shocked or admiring glance from passers-by as she and the Doctor raced along the street in the direction of the harbour.

"It's alright for you!" she complained. "You're not wearing a decidedly impractical dress and uncomfortable shoes!"

"Well kick off your shoes, then!" the Doctor called from up ahead.

"What, in this street? It's filthy!"

"Charley, come on! We're losing it!"

Rounding the corner they plunged into the narrow lanes that twisted and turned in insane directions, dodging carts, sacks, barrels, dogs and people until almost as soon as they had begun, the lanes broke open to reveal the wide expanse of the harbour; a startling, clear blue beneath the Portuguese sun.

"Where did it go?" Charley asked, breathless from running. She was very glad she had insisted on not wearing stays. "I can't see it anywhere!"

The Doctor's blue eyes hastily scanned the crush of people milling on the hard, the boats crowding at the quayside which were ferrying stores, sailors, whores and luggage to and from the few ships anchored out in the harbour…

"There!" He pointed out onto the water. "It's in that boat, heading for that ship!"

"In a boat?" Charley squinted against the bright sunlight sparkling off the surface of the water. "But how did it do that? Surely the crew must have seen it?"

"There's no 'must' about it, Charley," the Doctor said, biting back a growl of frustration. "Not for a creature with a natural perception filter; they have no idea what they're looking for, or at. We need to get aboard that ship."

"But how can we? We can't just go over there and invite ourselves aboard!"

The Doctor gave a brief, cheerful smile at the horrified look on Charley's face.

"Of course we can! This is the nineteenth century after all…" So saying he accosted a passing sailor by the sleeve of his coat. "Excuse me, my man, but the frigate in the harbour; what ship is that?"

The burly, deep-tanned sailor regarded the Doctor with something resembling an insolent glare, and possibly would have told him to what to do with himself; but seeing as he appeared to be a gentleman of some standing, and was accompanied by a young lady of undeniable quality, the sailor decided not to use some of the more choice words he had been preparing and opted instead for deference.

"Why, sir, that is the _Terpsichore_, 32 guns."

"_Terpsichore_, eh? Ancient Greek Muse of Dance. A charming name. And who is her captain?"

The sailor stared at the Doctor as if he had just escaped from Bedlam.

"You've not been here long, have you, sir?"

"Not all that long, no. Her captain?"

"Captain Richard Bolitho."

"Thank you, most helpful of you. Come along, Charley, let's find a boat to take us over there."

At this the sailor's face, having been astonished that this man did not recognise the name of Bolitho, brightened considerably.

"If you're wanting to go out to the _Terpsy_, sir, my cousin Jem owns a boat just abaft the King's Stairs. He'll take you both over at a decent price."

"How very kind of you." The Doctor smiled at the sailor. "That is indeed most convenient."

"Aye? Well, convenience is all good too. You any dunnage to be stowed aboard, sir? Jem and I'll collect it from your hotel."

"No, just us; a flying visit, you understand."

"It'll have to be, sir, if you're not staying. She sails tomorrow morning."

"Does she?" The Doctor tapped his chin in annoyance. "That makes it more difficult. Not impossible, but difficult. Well, take us to this boat of your cousin's then. What's your name, by the by?"

"Oliver Thorne, sir. At your service."

"And your cousin would be a Mr. Thorne too?"

"That's right, sir, Jeremiah. It's a family business, y'see."

"Yes, I never doubted it," the Doctor said evenly. "Lead on then, Thorne."

They followed Thorne down halfway along the quayside to a set of stone steps worn smooth with age leading into the water. Tied up next to it was a jolly boat, painted red and occupied by one older man and two youngsters, all looking exceedingly bored.

"Got two for you, Jem!" Thorne called when they were at the top of the stairs. He smiled at the Doctor and indicated the boys leaning over the oars. "That's my nephews; Seb and Ned."

"How charming," Charley muttered, the expression on her face expressing quite clearly that she was anything but charmed with the pimpled youths who were now looking at her with obvious interest.

Meanwhile Jem had assessed the potential wealth of his two passengers, and deciding that they fell into the richer class of customer unused to the sea dismissed his cousin Oliver with a sly wink and then put on his best business-like face.

"It'll be a long pull out 'fraid, sir," he said in something resembling a reluctant tone. "What with this cross-current and unexpected swell it'll be hard going for my lads. The effort will tell on them on the pull back."

"Undoubtedly," said the Doctor, reaching into his pocket and taking out a gold coin which he handed to Jem. "I'm not really one to haggle over a price, but I trust that'll be enough to secure a swift crossing?"

Jem and his two boys were staring transfixed at the golden coin, which was almost glowing against the grubby calloused skin of Jem's palm. Jem swallowed painfully, pocketed the piece and a huge smile broke out across his craggy, weatherbeaten visage. It was an unnerving sight.

"Best get aboard then, sir. We'll have you there in a trice!"

Barely a minute later the side of the _Terpsichore_ was looming up above the small boat, almost sheer out of the water. As they approached within hailing distance Jeremiah called out for permission for his visitors to come aboard, which came back as granted. Once alongside Seb hooked the boat on and Jeremiah cocked his head to one side, indicating that this was where he and his passengers parted.

"Up you go, sir. Only remember to salute the quarterdeck and all will be fine."

There were a set of narrow steps cut into the side of the ship leading up to the entry port above, but beyond that there seemed no obvious way of getting aboard.

"I can't possibly climb those!" Charley exclaimed at the sight of the shallow, slippery stairs wet with sea spray. "How am I to get aboard?"

"Oh, they'll be sending down the bosun's chair for you, miss, never you fear. I take it the lady will be going aboard, sir?" Jem directed the question at the Doctor.

"Oh, I don't think –" Charley began.

"Yes, she will, thank you," the Doctor cut in, firmly but politely to silence any further protest from Charley. "Send up for one if you please, Mr. Thorne."

"Right you are, doctor. And, ah, if you're ever needin' anything, like – any help at all – just send word over for Jeremiah Thorne at the Crown and Anchor. Meg behind the bar knows where to get hold of me."

The Doctor grinned.

"Very generous of you, Mr. Thorne."

Whilst Jem and several sailors were fussing over a bosun's chair to be lowered down to the by now nearly livid Charley, the Doctor dashed nimbly up the side of the ship and onto her deck. He made a vague gesture of respect which may have been a salute in the direction of the quarterdeck, and was immediately confronted by a host of astonished gazes from sailors on all sides. Slightly put off by the fact that this seemed to be more attention than the average visitor aboard a ship got – everyone was staring quite openly – the Doctor nonchalantly crossed the deck to the only visible officer; a young naval lieutenant with long red hair tied back into a queue, regarding him with startled dark blue eyes. The Doctor addressed him in a cheery manner.

"Ah, lieutenant, forgive me for coming aboard unannounced; you must be very surprised to receive a visitor. I'm here to see –"

"Oh, yes." The lieutenant seemed to recollect himself, almost shaking himself out of the daze the Doctor's appearance had put him into. "Yes, quite, sir. I can guess your errand; that much, if I may say so, is quite obvious. Yes. You are right though in saying that I am surprised. I would have thought that Mr. Bush would have warned me to expect you."

The Doctor stopped, trying not to show his surprise. He regarded the young man thoughtfully, his mind working very fast, sensing that once again he had stumbled across one of those opportunities that sometimes came his way which, if played right, could well be used to his advantage.

"Yes, I am sorry about that," he said apologetically. "It is not quite the thing to turn up unannounced. However, I did not get a chance to send notice of my visit. All rather sudden I'm afraid."

"I don't suppose it particularly matters, sir, now that you are here," the lieutenant said. "Only that it's clear that Mr. Bush will be as pleasantly surprised as we all are. If you'll follow me, sir, I'll take you to him."

_Pleasantly surprised, eh? _the Doctor reflected. Things were looking up then – though possibly not for long, for the sooner he met this 'Mr. Bush' the sooner he would be exposed as not being whoever the redheaded lieutenant had mistaken him for. When that happened he suspected things might get nasty.

"Shouldn't I pay my respects to Captain Bolitho first?" the Doctor asked, thinking that if he could not prevent the inevitable he might at least delay it.

"Mr. Bush is with the captain now, sir," the lieutenant replied. "So you may do so at the same time."

"I see. Very good." The Doctor inwardly cursed his luck. "One other thing though, Mister…?"

"Leat, sir. Second Lieutenant."

The Doctor regarded the lieutenant thoughtfully, impressed. He was a young man somewhat slender and feminine in build, appearing to be in his early twenties, and the Doctor had previously guessed must be the lowest ranking of the _Terpsichore_'s commissioned officers; third or fourth lieutenant on a ship this size. Yet to already be a second lieutenant on a frigate, placing him as third in overall command of the crew, meant that he must be a young man of some promise.

"Mr. Leat. My ward, Miss Pollard, is currently being hoisted aboard. If you could have someone see to her welfare whilst I am with the captain…?"

"Of course, sir." Leat turned and, with a surprisingly loud holler from so slender-framed a man, called forward along the deck. "Mister Fletcher, lay aft here!"

Almost immediately an incredibly small midshipman in a uniform far too large for him trotted up to them and saluted to the lieutenant, although the Doctor noticed a curious glance snatched in his direction. What was it that attracted their attention so? Did he have chocolate smeared on his face from his and Charley's detour to the coffee house earlier? He self-consciously rubbed at the corner of his mouth.

"Sir?" Fletcher asked of Leat.

"Mr. Fletcher, there is a young lady being brought aboard in the bosun's chair." How Fletcher could have failed to notice this already was beyond the Doctor; yet he knew well that naval etiquette demanded the repeating of the blatantly obvious. "You are to see to her comfort until we return."

Little Fletcher looked utterly daunted by the task, but he saluted all the same with a faint, "Aye aye, sir." and scuttled off towards the entry port where Charley, pale-faced, was being hauled inboard in the somewhat unstable canvas contraption.

"And now if you'll follow me…" Leat said, after Fletcher had gone. The lieutenant paused though uncertainly before making a move to go below. "If I might ask, sir, how am I to address you?"

"Oh, just the Doctor will do," the Doctor replied breezily. Leat nodded in acknowledgment.

"Ah yes, very good, sir. I see it would be confusing otherwise. Forgive me, though, I was not aware that you would be a doctor."

"Really?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows in an expression of mild surprise. "I thought it would have been mentioned."

"Not to me, sir. But then Mr. Bush has always been a very private man; it is only to be expected. If you'll step this way, doctor…"

The Doctor's mind was racing as he was led down the aft companionway below decks. _He knows me,_ he thought, staring intently at the back of Leat's head. _Or at least he thinks he knows me, as it seems do the rest of the crew by the way they're all staring. He didn't know my name, but he must have recognised my face… and somehow I seem to be connected to this Mr. Bush, whoever he is. Well, Doctor, you'll find out soon enough; and then you'll probably end up in hot water. Again._

The Marine sentry outside the captain's cabin straightened to attention as they approached through the gloom, and Leat halted before the door and knocked.

"Come in!" a strong voice called from the other side of the woodwork. Leat looked over his shoulder at the Doctor.

"If you'll wait here, Doctor," he said, and then the lieutenant removed his hat, tucked it under one arm, stepped through the door that was opened for him by the sentry into the cabin, making his obedience as he did so.

Inside the Great Cabin, Captain Richard Bolitho of His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy sat behind his desk which was arranged athwartships across the stern windows and piled high with the ship's books and sheaves of paperwork (For a ship preparing to leave harbour on a cruise accumulated a vast amount of official documents and chits to be signed, countersigned and returned to the dockyard administrators before the officer of the watch even thought of giving the order to 'Weigh anchor!'). Assisting him were the Purser, Foxley, and the First Lieutenant, William Bush; collating verbal and paper reports as to the _Terpsy_'s state of readiness from the various crew and midshipmen going to and fro from ship to shore. Into all of this stepped Leat.

"What is it, Mr. Leat?" the captain asked, having briefly raised his head from the ledger he was writing in to see who had entered the cabin.

"Your pardon, sir, but Dr. Bush is come aboard to see Mr. Bush."

Bush frowned at his fellow lieutenant, clearly puzzled by this news.

"I am not expecting a Dr. Bush," he said.

"He regrets that he did not have time to send warning of his intentions," Leat said.

"And what intentions would those be, Mr. Leat?" Bolitho asked, raising his head again to furnish the redheaded lieutenant with a quizzical expression.

"I don't know, sir. A family visit, I suppose."

Bush's frown deepened considerably.

"What are you on about? There is no Dr. Bush in my family."

All of a sudden the temperature in the cabin seemed to drop a few degrees as everyone present simultaneously realised that something was terribly amiss.

"He is not your brother, then?" Leat asked hesitantly.

"Of course not!" Bush replied. "I have sisters – Dear God, no end of sisters! – but not a single brother."

"Did he claim that he was so, Mr. Leat?" Bolitho asked.

"No, sir, I just assumed…" Leat trailed off as three pairs of eyes stared at him incredulously. Beneath his sunburn he flushed bright red as he realised the gravity of his mistake.

"You assumed?" Bush asked coldly.

"I apologise, Mr. Bush," Leat said, hurrying to his justification. He and Bush had an amiable relationship, and the younger lieutenant would not see the harmony of the wardroom destroyed over a simple misunderstanding. "My abject apologies. He is so like you in appearance, though, that I thought you could be nothing else but related."

"Just as well it was a misunderstanding," mused Bolitho, himself eager not to see any bad blood between his senior lieutenants. "He would have been a poor fool if he thought he could sustain such a deception for long! You say that he is very like Mr. Bush?"

"Yes, sir," Leat replied earnestly. "It is the most extraordinary thing. You could not find two more alike than any twins!"

"How strange. Did he say what his business was about?"

Leat shook his head.

"Not really, sir, but he was particular about paying his respects to you. Nor did he give me his name, save that he instructed me to address him as 'Doctor'. He is waiting outside the cabin now."

"Is he? Well, I suppose we had better have him in."

"With all due respect, sir, is that wise?" asked Bush, halting Leat in his progress to the cabin door. "He may well be a spy. He has already proved himself dishonest in allowing Mr. Leat to remain deceived as to his identity."

"He's right, sir," Foxley said, speaking up. "You must admit that his actions have so far not been those of an honest man."

"I do not see what danger he might do here in my cabin," Bolitho said, acting as the voice of reason. "There are four of us, plus the sentry outside the door; more than enough to overpower him. We are all curious as to his errand on board, so I propose we invite him in here and ask him. Be so good as to fetch him, Mr. Leat."

"Aye, sir."

Meanwhile on the other side of the cabin door the Doctor had been waiting with a feeling of growing unease. There was something here; something he could not quite put a name to, something he sensed in the cabin beyond that made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. Something was not right here, but he could not for the life of him figure out what, though the fact that it felt wrong led him to believe it was not human. Lieutenant Leat had also been gone too long simply to announced the presence of a visitor, and though he could not hear what was being said inside (the Marine sentry's presence prevented him from putting his ear to the door) he easily discerned raised and questioning voices – all of which did not bode well.

His suspicions were confirmed when at last the door opened and Leat reappeared, the Doctor noting that the young man's expression was nothing like as familiar or friendly as before. Indeed, it could be described as downright hostile.

"This way if you please, Doctor," he said with crisp coldness.

_Oh dear, _thought the Doctor. He had certainly been rumbled. Still he smiled cheerily at Leat, willing to show he at least had no bad feelings about his taking advantage of the misunderstanding.

"Thank you," he said, and stepped into the cabin… only to stop short and stare, astonished at the sight that presented itself to him.

Assembled behind a desk were three naval officers; one seated and two flanking him either side. The one seated was obviously Captain Bolitho, the one to his right was dressed in a simpler blue jacket that suggested the rank of a warrant officer, and the one on his left wore the uniform of a lieutenant. All three were staring at him apparently amazed, judging by their open mouths and wide eyes, yet none more so than the lieutenant who looked to be in a severe state of shock. The Doctor did not blame him, because he was feeling no less shocked himself. He now understood the reason for the curious stares of the crew and Leat's mistaking his identity; now he saw the lieutenant – undoubtedly the named Mr. Bush – it all became perfectly clear.

Because when he looked at Mr. Bush it was as if he were looking in a mirror, and doubtless Mr. Bush was having the exact same thought about him.

The Doctor's hearts thumped wildly in his chest. Admittedly there were some differences; the hair style, the clothes obviously, and Bush possessed a more tanned complexion from long years of service at sea – but essentially there was no difference in their build, carriage or features; the same bright blue eyes, same mouth, same nose, chin and bone structure… Same hands as well by the looks of things.

"Incredible!" the Doctor murmured.

"Indeed," Bush uttered in response. Even their voices were similar.

Returning somewhat to his senses Bolitho looked between his lieutenant and the stranger, secretly wondering whether Bush was mistaken and in fact had been separated from an identical twin brother at birth. Further speculation on the subject would have to wait, however, unless the visitor's purpose was to inform Mr. Bush that they were indeed long lost siblings, which he doubted if this 'Doctor's' reaction was anything to go by. He seemed as stunned as Bush.

"Doctor," Bolitho said, finally breaking the silence. "Mr. Leat informed me that on coming aboard you wished an interview with me. Do you have an errand concerning my ship?"

"What? Oh, yes." The Doctor tore his gaze away from his twin and focussed again on the captain. Could it be coincidence? Some strange twist of genetic fate? A secret liaison with another Earth woman that his father had neglected to tell him about? He would have time for speculation later; now he must remember the reason he came here. "Captain Bolitho, I apologize for the manner of my coming aboard, but there was a slight misunderstanding with Lieutenant Leat as to my identity. Understandable, of course."

"Quite understandable," Bolitho echoed.

"However, I am here on a mission, so to speak."

This caused all the naval officers to frown at the Doctor.

"A mission?" asked Foxley.

"I had not been made aware we were to take a passenger with us," protested Bolitho.

"Passengers," the Doctor corrected pointedly. "There is my ward, Miss Pollard, who shall be accompanying me."

"On whose authority?" asked Bush, seemingly recovered from the revelation that he possessed an identical twin.

The Doctor fished inside his coat pocket and produced a sheet of paper folded into three, which he handed over for Bolitho's inspection. The captain frowned as he read the paper, then looked up at the Doctor with a mixture of reserve and suspicion.

"An instruction I cannot refuse," he said coldly.

"You could say that," the Doctor said mildly. This psychic paper was certainly proving to be immensely useful. He wondered why it had taken him as long as seven regenerations to think of carrying the stuff.

"It says that my officers and I are to offer you every assistance," Bolitho continued, folding the paper and handing it back to the Doctor. Bush had managed to steal a glance over his captain's shoulder to see what signature adorned this paper, but he had concluded that his eyes were playing tricks on him, for to him the paper had appeared to be blank.

"Believe me, it would be in your interest and the interest of every man and boy aboard the _Terpsichore _if you were to do so," the Doctor replied, taking the paper from Bolitho and secreting it about his person again.

Bolitho's frown deepened into a scowl.

"And why should that be, Doctor?" he asked.

The Doctor smiled, but above the smile the expression in his light blue eyes was deadly serious.

"Because if you do not something terrible is going to happen, and then you will have wished you had."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"So remind me what we're doing here again?"

The Doctor sighed and shot Charley a withering glance.

"How many more times, Charley? I am Dr. John Smith, a confidential agent from the Admiralty, and you are Miss Charlotte Pollard, my ward. However you, of course, do not know I am a secret agent, but are just along to see the sights."

"And what is this confidential mission you are on?" Charley asked wryly from where she sat on a chair in the corner of the cabin. "Or has the psychic paper not chosen to enlighten you about that?"

Yesterday afternoon, after they had secured their passage on the _Terpsichore_, the Doctor had gone ashore to arrange the collection of their "dunnage" – something at which Charley was very surprised, as travelling in the TARDIS meant a severe lack of arranging luggage; the luggage simply came with you – yet she vaguely remembered it was expected of normal passengers to carry at least a suitcase.

Happily the Doctor had thought of a solution to this problem, and it was for this reason that the landlord of the Sacred Heart, one of the better establishments in town, was baffled by the appearance of an English gentleman rather eccentric in his dress (even for an Englishman) who had requested to leave three sea chests and a somewhat confused lady's maid to be collected by a party of sailors from the _Terpsichore_. The landlord thought this a strange and somewhat suspicious arrangement, especially as the maid revealed that she had only been engaged that afternoon and was yet to meet her mistress; but the gentleman who gave his name as Dr. John Smith had given him a crown for his trouble, and so deciding there was no real harm in this small deception did not mention any of his suspicions when the _Terpsichore_'s party turned up to take away the cases and the wayward maid.

"You know perfectly well the paper doesn't work like that," the Doctor said, shortening the drop of the hanging cot which was to serve as his bed. "Besides, no paper from the Admiralty would be so careless as to write down the details of a secret mission for anyone to see."

"But no one is seeing it," Charley pointed out.

The Doctor paused, apparently thinking this over, then waved a hand dismissively.

"That's not the point, Charley."

"Oh, isn't it?" she said with mock innocence. "I'm sorry, my mistake."

The navy's usual practice when transporting distinguished guests was for the first lieutenant to offer up his cabin for use and each of the officers to move down a berth. However, as Bush quite understandably was disturbed by the idea of surrendering his cabin to a man who was not only physically his twin, but had been mistaken by all and sundry for his brother, Leat had prevented the inevitably awkward request from the captain by volunteering to give up his cabin, and so setting off the chain of evictions one step further down the ladder with Mr. Deverel, the third lieutenant. Although he had not said so the _Terpsy_'s officers could tell that Bolitho was relieved; he had not relished the task of putting the question of accommodation to his already upset-enough first lieutenant. Charley was being given the captain's sleeping cabin for her use, as befitted a lady of her quality.

Charley, in her turn, was troubled by Mr. Bush. She had been as surprised as everyone else when she had been introduced to Bolitho's Premier for the first time, and having heard the rumours already flying about the ship as to there being a possible relation between the lieutenant and the Doctor, wondered if there could be any truth in this. After all, even though he was an alien, the Doctor looked human.

"Doctor," she said, broaching the subject cautiously. "What do you make of Mr. Bush?"

At this the Doctor stopped what he was doing and straightened up, suddenly thoughtful.

"I don't know what to think, Charley. I know the Universe is a big place and unrelated likenesses are not unknown…"

"I think it's uncanny!"

"Stranger things happen at sea, and all that – or is that 'worse'? But there's something, Charley, something that's not quite right about Mr. Bush. I felt it as I stood outside the captain's cabin yesterday, and now that I know it's there I'm noticing it more and more."

"You mean..." Charley frowned. She noticed the Doctor was fidgeting distractedly with the fob of his watch chain. "You mean that he could be an alien, like you?"

"Oh no, he's human alright – so obviously human that anything else would be unthinkable – but I've never been one to take the obvious for granted. There's something else about him that just doesn't _fit_, and it's worrying me."

"What are you going to do? We're meant to be here to find a… what did you call it?"

"An Elemental Shade. They don't have a proper name, mainly because they're not supposed to exist; not here at least. They were banished thousands of millennia ago to the Howling, but this one must have found a way to slip through into this reality."

"And this Shade thing is dangerous?"

"Very dangerous. The extent of their powers is unclear, lost in legend, but they were certainly malicious."

"Fine," said Charley. "So I was thinking, Doctor, shouldn't we concentrate on finding it instead of getting side-tracked into wondering about a first lieutenant who may or may not be human?"

But the Doctor did not appear to be listening anymore, and continued to fondle his watch fob.

"I have a theory," he murmured. "Unlikely, but it's possible. If I could only find out if he has a watch, and then I could… But suppose he's not? What then?"

Seeing that she would not get anything further from him, Charley rolled her eyes and sighed, leaning back in the chair as far as the rickety frame and the close confines of the cabin would allow.

"Still," she said, changing the subject. "They're probably wondering what sort of mission could possibly justify you bringing your ward along with you!"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," the Doctor said, bringing himself out of his _reverie_ and returning to his task. Lieutenant Leat was just that much shorter than the Doctor to have made the adjustment necessary. "Nothing could be more natural than a gentleman of the Enlightenment travelling to see the world and bringing along a young lady in his protection to broaden her mind. You're a most convenient cover for a secret agent, in fact."

"On a warship?" Charley asked dryly, letting the 'convenient cover' go for the moment.

"Hm, yes, I take your point. Still, that won't really matter unless we are caught by the Enemy."

"That would be the French, I take it," Charley murmured. "And are we likely to get caught by the Enemy, Doctor?"

"Difficult to say. From what I hear this Bolitho has something of a reputation for a sharp action – Strange that I've never heard of him, though – but even the most cunning of commanders can sometimes run foul of circumstance."

"Well, that's very reassuring," Charley said dryly. Her sarcasm though went wide of the mark as the Doctor, now satisfied with the cot, was busily investigating the contents of his sea chest, muttering to himself as he did so.

"Now where did I put that…? I swear it was here a minute ago…"

"Mind the way, sir. Mind the way."

The carpenter and his two mates arrived outside the open cabin door, the latter carrying the ship's toolbox between them.

"What's this?" the Doctor asked, straightening up to face the newcomers.

"We'll not be long, sir," the carpenter (whose name was McNish) said, putting down the bolt of canvas he was carrying. "We've just to bolt down the table afresh, then put up a curtain for the lady's privacy in her cabin, is all."

"My privacy?" Charley questioned.

"Aye, miss. You'll be sharing with your maid, won't you?"

"Exactly. Very good," the Doctor replied, adopting the superior manner he had decided on for his role. He grinned at Charley. "Must preserve your decency, mustn't we, Charlotte?"

Charley gave him a glare that quite clearly expressed what she felt the Doctor might do with his 'decency'.

"Your box has been safely stowed below in the hold, you'll be happy to know too, sir," McNish continued. The TARDIS had been brought down to the harbour by a cart and then carried out to the _Terpsichore_ on a lighter, as the Doctor did not want to be out at sea and helpless, as it were; he liked to have an alternative to a lifeboat. Besides, it was more than likely that he may need some of his more specialised equipment from inside.

"Doors up, as I specified?"

"Yes, sir."

The Doctor smiled.

"Excellent. Carry on, Mr. McNish."

"Thank you, sir. Joe, pass me the hammer."

The one of the crew referred to as Joe obediently opened the toolbox and rummaged about inside.

"Well, pass me the bleedin' hammer, boy!" McNish snapped after a moment of awkward silence. He then recollected that there was a lady present, and flushed a dark pink. "'Scuse my French, miss. Beggin' your pardon."

"It's not in here, sir," Joe said apologetically. "Must've left it in the workshop."

McNish sighed and shoved Joe out of the way. He searched his box with something resembling anxiety, and then straightened up, quite a worried expression on his face.

"I'm sorry, sir, I seem to have misplaced my hammer…"

He then stopped, effectively drowned out by a measured thumping that had started on the other side of the bulkhead in the cabin next door.

"Sam," McNish said to the other mate, a tone of weary resignation entering his voice. "Go and ask Mr. Leat if he would be so kind as to return my hammer. With my compliments, of course."

"'Course, sir." Sam nodded and shot out of the door, winking at Joe as he did so. From this shared gesture of amusement between the carpenter's mates the Doctor suspected that the disappearing hammer must be a regular occurrence.

"Tell me, Mr. McNish," the Doctor asked; partly to fill the time until Sam returned, partly because he might as well find out what he could about the officers and crew. "Is Mr. Leat in the habit of borrowing your hammer without notice?"

"Aye," McNish replied in a long-suffering manner. "And not just my hammer, sir, but other sorts of tools as well."

"Strikes me as a little unusual for a lieutenant."

"Well, Mr. Leat is a little… unusual, if you'll pardon my saying so, sir."

"Really?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows a fraction and smiled encouragingly, leaning forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "Do tell."

The carpenter leant in towards the Doctor eagerly, as it appeared that McNish liked a gossip as much as the next man.

"Well, sir, he was pressed y'see, when he was a lad."

"Pressed?" Charley sat up on the edge of her seat, threatening to have the whole ancient structure over. "You mean he was abducted?"

"Well, aye, that's the press for you, miss," McNish said awkwardly, lowering his voice, all too aware that the subject of their conversation was only next door. The press gang was considered a necessary evil by society at large; how else was the navy to man its hundreds of its ships of the line, frigates and smaller craft? It could never be done with volunteers alone, not with the discipline being strict, the pay poor and the days of fantastic prize money long since gone. "Anyway, before he was pressed he was an undertaker. It's his family's business; an undertaker born and bred, which meant that he was marked down for carpenter's crew soon as the _Peregrine_'s – that's the sloop he was pressed into, miss – soon as her first luff found out."

The Doctor nodded appreciatively. Leat had certainly climbed the promotion ladder swiftly if he'd started off on the lower deck and was still young now.

"From there on they discovered he had a head for figures," McNish continued. "He'd been responsible for his father's books, and got hisself made up to master's mate. After that it was only a matter of getting his sea time before he could pass for lieutenant."

"How interesting," the Doctor murmured, storing the information away for future reference. He'd noticed that the hammering from next door had stopped about a minute ago.

"Point is, Doctor, four years of being an officer don't make a man who knows how to use his hands forget, and any small thing Mr. Leat needs doing or fixing he tends to do for hisself. Problem is he keeps borrowing my tools and not returning 'em. Though mind you, that's not by far the most unusual thing –"

"And I do apologise for my forgetfulness, Mr. McNish," a voice said from the doorway, cutting into the conversation. The carpenter whirled round guiltily to see Leat standing there holding the misappropriated hammer, Sam visible behind his shoulder wearing a somewhat sheepish expression. The Doctor reckoned the lieutenant must have heard nearly all of McNish's monologue, and McNish seemed to have come to the same conclusion, as he had gone incredibly red in the face.

Leat calmly offered the hammer to the carpenter.

"One hammer, returned with my sincerest apologies. I was just moving the hook that held the lantern to a more convenient location."

McNish mumbled something between a 'thank you' and an apology and took the hammer, returning to his toolbox out of which he busied himself by counting his stock of nails. Leat gave the carpenter's back an amused look, and in that instant the Doctor decided that he liked the young lieutenant.

Having thus stopped McNish's tongue from committing any further indiscretion, Leat turned to the Doctor and Charley.

"Captain Bolitho asked me to pass on his invitation to Miss Pollard and yourself, Doctor, to dine with him in his cabin this evening."

"How very kind of him. We will be happy to accept," the Doctor replied before Charley even began to make a reply. "Would that be an appropriate moment to have a private word with the captain, do you think?"

Leat did not voice his opinion to the Doctor that an invitation from the captain was as good as an order, but instead replied; "I very much doubt it, Doctor, as I and the other lieutenants and warrant officers shall be present. It is a tradition at the beginning of the voyage for a ship's officers to toast to its success."

"I see. I beg your pardon, Mr. Leat; I am not all that familiar with the ways of naval etiquette. It's been years since I've been on a ship – well, relative years, I suppose. Although there wasn't exactly room for much etiquette the last time, either; everyone seemed to be too busy trying to sink each other."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **So far I've written up to and including Chapter 7 of this fic, which is why the updates at the moment are coming thick and fast. I've planned it to run to about ten chapters so the end won't be too slow in coming; don't wonder, though, if Chapter 8 takes a little longer to show up.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

The _Terpsichore_ was leaving Lisbon further and further behind, her bow cutting gracefully through the waves like some playful dolphin. To Edward Leat she had seemed to slip eagerly from the harbour, spreading canvas wings that had remained furled for too long, stretching out cramped limbs and sighing in relief, the sailcloth snapping taught as the crew sheeted-home.

Poetic observations aside, the day had gone well. The crew, though relatively fresh (They had only been together for five months), were already handling the ship with some style; a credit to their captain's methods of training, but also a credit to her first lieutenant, who was largely responsible in implementing the captain's wishes and supervising the exercising of the _Terpsy's _men. With this in mind Leat approached Bush on the quarterdeck, as the first lieutenant was standing the present watch. The two officers exchanged salutes and casual pleasantries before turning their gazes forward out of habit to keep an eye on the length of the deck and the sails. After a moment of companionable silence Leat spoke.

"The captain was most impressed with the way you took her out this morning," he said to Bush. "He did not say as much, but it was clear to see he was pleased."

"Then it was not a credit to me, but to the crew," Bush replied soberly, yet Leat knew the man well enough to see that the compliment had pleased him. "They have come a long way in a short time."

"That much is down to you," Leat said in return. "At least in part. Don't try to deny that!"

"I did not imagine it needed denying, Mr. Leat."

Sensing that he was being made game of, Leat rolled his eyes in mock exasperation at the other lieutenant.

"It must pain you to be so infuriatingly modest, Mr. Bush," he quipped dryly.

Bush cast a thoughtful glance in the direction of the mainsail, apparently considering the weight of this argument, then wagged his head in agreement.

"Well, I suppose my natural brilliance may have played some small part."

Leat chuckled and Bush smiled. It was the sort of fine morning that leant itself to easy conversation.

"And doubtless they were eager to be at sea again," Bush continued, serious once more. Leat nodded, understanding that by 'they' Bush was referring to the hands.

"Like most of us," he replied.

"Yes," said Bush. "Our stay in port was not one of the most peaceful I have known."

Leat was suddenly all too conscious of the faint shadow of bruising that remained over his left eye; a souvenir of when he, Bush and Lieutenant Cartwright, their Marine officer, had run foul of a Portuguese man a couple of nights ago in Oporto having presumptuously serenaded his wife during a, by now, legendary debauch ashore. The next day had seen the hands nervously circumnavigating the quarterdeck, lest the tempers of their horribly hung-over lieutenants be roused without due cause. A shame; he had managed to forget about it for a few hours.

"It was not exactly uneventful, no," Leat agreed reluctantly. The incident had mainly been his fault. "Any longer and the captain doubtless would have feared for discipline."

By the way Bush flinched Leat knew that the other lieutenant was remembering that disgraceful night too, and the younger man could not hide a smile. The sight of the usually so stoical Bush three sheets to the wind and sliding serenely beneath the _posada _table would provide him with fond recollections (and ample material for blackmail) 'til the end of his days.

"Is Mr. Deverel to make an appearance on deck this morning, do you think?" Bush asked instead, changing the subject in an attempt to wipe the amused smirk from his fellow debauchee's face. The mention of Deverel did its work, bringing a fresh gravity to the conversation which was reflected in Leat's expression.

"I would imagine so," Leat replied, a hint of reprove in his voice. The younger man looked askance at Bush. "Give him time, William. He has only been with us a few days, and before that has been bounced backwards and forwards around the fleet like an old tennis ball. Let him have a moment to stand still and he may well turn out to be a decent fellow."

Yet even as he said it Leat knew he did not sound wholly convinced, and it was with good reason. Jack Deverel, the new third lieutenant, was an undeniable sot. It perhaps would not have been so bad had his predecessor, Mr. George, a grizzled officer of many year's experience and a model of mature sobriety, had not presented such an extreme contrast. Admittedly Deverel had never yet turned up for duty the worse for drink, but the rest of the _Terpsy's _officers knew all too well how he chose to spend his leisure hours in the wardroom beneath their feet. It was a habit that often made for awkward conversation at dinner.

"Were it as simple as that..." Bush murmured; but he did not finish the sentence, perhaps realising that further speculation on a fellow officer's fitness whilst on the quarterdeck and in earshot of at least twenty other men would be too great an indiscretion.

"Might Mr. Farley be persuaded to have a word with him?" Leat suggested, after a moment's reflection. James Farley was the _Terpsy's _surgeon, and as a member of the wardroom mess would have a vested interest in curbing Deverel's drinking habits. Bush however shook his head once more.

"I would not ask him, and neither will you for that matter. What Mr. Deverel does is his own concern, and what he brings shall be on his own head. It will be Mr. Farley's decision alone to take action, should he feel that any action is necessary, when the time comes."

Leat had noted Bush's use of the word 'when' instead of 'if', and caught its significance. Even now the Premier did not see fit to give Deverel the benefit of the doubt, and Leat found himself wondering if there ever had been any hope for poor Jack Deverel. Once, possibly, but clearly not anymore. Bush caught some of Leat's thoughts in his expression, and in response merely sighed and shook his head, tucking his chin gloomily into his cravat.

"I will not pretend that I am looking forward to this dinner tonight," Bush continued bleakly. "But I wish for all our sakes that Deverel will not disgrace us in front of strangers."

Again Leat found himself agreeing with Bush. At that moment, as if summoned by the mention of the word 'strangers', the Doctor's eccentric figure emerged from the forward companionway behind the gunner, Mr. Hennock. It appeared they were engaged in deep conversation, the former gesturing expansively at their various surroundings on deck. From this Leat concluded that Hennock must be giving the Doctor a tour of the ship.

A stiffening in the first lieutenant's posture told Leat that Bush too had noticed their guest's appearance; though to be fair with the extraordinary get-up he wore it was very difficult to be unaware of the Doctor's presence. Apparently sensing he was under scrutiny the Doctor turned and, seeing the two lieutenants frowning at him, gave them a wave and a bright, friendly smile before returning to his conversation with Hennock.

"What do you make of him?" Leat asked of Bush, lowering his voice in an attempt not to be overheard by the helmsmen nearby, whose faces were fixed in the dutifully attentive expressions peculiar to professional eavesdroppers.

Bush glowered along the deck in the Doctor's direction, clenching his square jaw and narrowing his eyes.

"I certainly don't trust him," he replied with a growl, and in truth Leat supposed he had not needed to ask; Bush practically radiated an aura of intense dislike towards the Doctor. "He's bad news. Admiralty man or no, I certainly would never have allowed him aboard!"

"It could be said that any of the Admiralty's men are bad news," Leat observed neutrally. "At least, their presence rarely benefits those that are carrying them."

"This one seems worse than usual," Bush persisted. "I do not know how many of the Admiralty's agents you have come across in your time, but I have seen a few, and this Doctor is not their usual type; not at all. He's too brash, too clever –"

"Clever?" Leat raised his eyebrows in curiosity. He had not yet seen much evidence of the Doctor being clever or otherwise. Indeed, so far the Doctor had merely struck Leat as being odd.

"You see the way he is talking to Hennock? Watch him. See how he nods and smiles, lets Hennock do the talking? But he knows it already, you can see it in his eyes. Any man that pretends to know less than he does really makes me uneasy."

"You are sure it is not bias because of earlier?" Leat asked cautiously, reflecting that Bush had become remarkably perceptive where their guest was concerned – but Bush shook his head, missing the implication altogether.

"No, there is something queer about him; something else that is not right. He provokes a feeling of unease every time I look at him, and it gets me here." He laid a hand on his chest. "I cannot help it, nor can I explain or understand it."

"It is indeed a strange place to have a suspicious feeling," Leat commented. "Are you certain it is not indigestion?"

Bush looked down and saw that he had accidentally placed his hand over the right side of his breast, instead of over his heart as he had meant to. He dropped it down and clasped it with his other hand behind his back.

"I don't suppose it really matters where I feel it; just that I feel it at all! Believe me, Edward, I know with the utmost certainty that he will bring us nothing but trouble. And it's started already. Take that girl he's brought aboard, his ward, Miss Pollard. No good has ever come from a lady on a man-of-war, and she's as much an enigma as her guardian – if he really is her guardian at all."

"That usually goes without saying."

"I've spoken to her maid."

"Good heavens, have you, William?"

Bush grimaced at Leat's good-natured jibe, recognising that his fellow officer had been trying to lighten the conversation.

"Surprisingly enough, yes. And she knows nothing of her employers; she was only engaged yesterday in Lisbon. She had not even met Miss Pollard before she boarded the ship. Do not tell me that is not strange!"

Further along the deck amidships the Doctor had kept half an eye on the lieutenants on the quarterdeck during Hennock's monologue on the process of wearing ship, and he had noticed Bush place his hand to the right side of his chest, then look down in confusion at the motion. _Interesting_, he thought, suspecting what the movement might have been. It fell neatly into place with his current theory regarding the puzzle which was the _Terpsichore's_ first lieutenant, and would greatly influence his next line of investigation. Logging the detail for further contemplation, he returned his full attention to Hennock, smiling at the gunner with open pleasure.

"Amazing, Mr. Hennock; please go on. I've always found the nautical sciences most fascinating..."

xoxoxox

The Marine sentry at the glass had just struck two bells in the last dog watch – near seven o'clock in the evening by Charley's reckoning, making an effort to recall her scanty knowledge of all things nautical – which meant she had about an hour left before dinner was served which, she had been informed by the captain's steward, Catchpole, was to be at eight bells. Punctuality, Catchpole had also respectfully pointed out, was expected; even from ladies.

To that end Charley was already in the later stages of making herself presentable for 19th century gentrified company – something which before she had met the Doctor she would never have imagined herself ever having to do. On the other side of the bulkhead in the Great Cabin itself she could hear the scrape, bump and swearing of the hands moving Captain Bolitho's furniture to better accommodate his guests, and just now her new maid had finished helping her into a rather exquisite evening dress of green satin. If nothing else the Doctor seemed to have picked up some gorgeous couture in his travels, though Charley thought she had better refrain from asking how he came to be in possession of so many stunning dresses. Some questions were better left unanswered.

The maid stood by admiringly as her mistress examined herself in the mirror which had been generously loaned to them by Captain Bolitho. Charley knew little about her maid. She was a short, slender girl of about twenty-three, somewhat mousey in colouring and temperament, and nothing much that could be rated above pretty. Her name was Alice Bradbury, and from what little Charley had gleaned she knew that Alice had come out to Gibraltar from somewhere in Sussex with an elderly mistress who had been advised by her doctor to relocate to a warmer climate. Unfortunately the old lady had died a week into her convalescence and had not thought to leave the poor girl with a reference. Desperate and not knowing what else to do, Alice had travelled to join a distant acquaintance in Lisbon and, after many months of searching in vain for employment, had answered Dr. Smith's advertisement and was bewildered to find herself so readily accepted.

Now Alice looked on happily as Charley twirled in front of the mirror, glad it seemed to have honest employment again and in the possession of a mistress with a much better temperament than the crotchety old dowager.

"Begging your pardon, miss, but that green does go lovely with your eyes."

Charley smiled. She knew herself to be beautiful and secretly liked it when others complimented her on her looks, even though she had once, so long ago it seemed now, tried to pass herself off as a boy.

"Do you think so?" Charley gave another experimental twirl in front of the glass. "I've never really gone for green before, though after this I think I may give it more of a try."

"Oh yes, miss! It would be a real shame not to. I imagine blue would do too. You was wearing blue when we weighed this morning, weren't you, miss?"

"Yes. Yes, I was," Charley replied, as she concentrated on securing a dark green velvet choker around her neck. Alice had timidly suggested the choker earlier, as a compliment to Charley's unusually short hair, and like most of Alice's suggestions where fashion was concerned Charley was pleasantly surprised at how well it suited her.

The length of her hair had worried Charley when they first arrived. She remembered years ago her grandmother telling her that back in her day a girl with short hair had either been seriously ill or of was considered to be of 'loose morals'. Charley hoped that the officers of the Terpsichore would assume the former, though seeing as they were all men of the world it was more than likely that they would opt for the alternative; especially as she was announced to be under the Doctor's dubious 'protection'. Much good that would do her, she reflected bitterly; yet that was the only thought to trouble her as she took time to scrutinise herself in the mirror once again. In a way she was looking forward to this dinner, if only to see how the Doctor and Mr. Bush would interact at close quarters - and maybe to take the opportunity to practice a little innocent flirtation on Captain Bolitho. On coming aboard she could not help but notice the captain's dark good looks (although it was more than likely he was married with a terribly proper wife somewhere in England), and the other officers were not too bad to look at either. The redheaded one, Leat she thought his name was, appeared promising if a little quiet; and Mr. Deverel, the third lieutenant, seemed game for some fun... and then there was Mr. Bush. Brooding, handsome Mr. Bush; a rugged version of the Doctor, but without the Doctor's annoying tendency to blather. Or name drop. Or talk right over her. Or pat bits of his ship in ways that at times made Charley feel decidedly jealous.

In the mirror Charley's reflection smiled back at her wickedly. She had a feeling the evening might be very fun indeed.

xoxoxox

Deep in the bowels of the _Terpsichore_, down in the dark, deserted hold something stirred. It was insubstantial, impossible to place, but _it_ was there, and it was growing impatient.

How much longer, how much longer must it wait? It sensed the Timelord above him and the Anomaly. So close, so very close… It had run aboard this vessel with the intention of escaping the Timelord; but he had followed, and then when it had felt the Anomaly there too it had realised what an opportunity had come its way. Both elements so close together, both within its grasp! But it must be patient, must wait 'til the time was right. First it must regain its strength, recover from those millennia of torment in the wilderness, so first it must feed. It must be strong to face the Timelord; and here there was strength in plenty from which to make food.

It left the hold, flitting from shadow to shadow, revelling in the beating hearts and warm bodies all around it. Here was plenty, here was abundance! Here darkness was its friend, and darkness would let it feast.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **The action picks up from hereon.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

So far, from Bolitho's point of view, the dinner had gone well. There had not yet been any outright disaster, though judging by the way Mr. Bush was gripping his spoon the captain had a feeling it might only be a matter of time before the first lieutenant made a determined attempt to impale someone upon it.

In all there were ten guests at the captain's table this evening. Besides his three lieutenants, the Doctor and Miss Pollard, there was present the surgeon, Mr. Farley, along with his mate Mr. Fitzpatrick; a gentleman and scholar in his late twenties who for reasons best known to himself had found it convenient to go away to sea. Foxley, the purser, was here as well, and so was Lieutenant Cartwright of the Marines. Finally, and certainly last in the naval pecking order, the young gentlemen were represented by Frederick Chandos, the senior Midshipman; a gangling seventeen-year-old with short blond hair, dark brown eyes, numerous freckles and a tendency to bang his knees on door frames or the undersides of tables. From the outset the atmosphere in the Great Cabin had been unusually tense for an occasion such as this. That Lieutenant Deverel was already somewhat tipsy had not helped, but the chief cause of unease undoubtedly stemmed from Bush instinctively glaring daggers at the Doctor every time their eyes happened to meet – which seemed to occur an astonishing number of times as the company had milled about sipping sherry before taking their seats at the dining table. The Doctor, however, seemed to be taking Bush's hostility in his stride. He had merely smiled in reply to every scowl, and instead of being put off made a point of engaging the first lieutenant in conversation.

Keeping an eye on the pantomime unfolding before him Bolitho had mentally resigned himself to an excruciating evening, as it seemed that Bush was still smarting badly over the previous day's mishap; therefore it was unlikely that any cordiality could be expected from that quarter. Yet even as he observed them, Bolitho could not help but wonder again at the similarity between Mr. Bush and Dr. Smith. Leat had been right; _you could not find two more alike than any twins. _That was certainly the case, both in physiology and voice, if you took into account that these twins had been separated by more than thirty years in which one had lived the life of a sailor and the other in obvious comfort.

The more he watched them the more Bolitho became convinced that there had to be some connection between the two, and several theories began to present themselves to his mind; the chief one concerning the Doctor's name. John Smith seemed such a generic name for a man of the Doctor's position; disappointing in its mundaneness, you might say; not suggesting of rank, family, region or origin. It was a name that could be found anywhere in England, and it was this that made Bolitho suspect that it might have been given to the Doctor at some point, not inherited. Bush had a family; his father had been a blacksmith, he had sisters and had a home waiting whenever he returned from the sea. Could it be perhaps that at birth twins – brothers, maybe – were found to be too much of a burden to their parents? Could it be that the charity of some unknown hand took away one brother to be raised by benevolent strangers whilst the other remained with his family? Equally fantastic tales were to be found in the annals of history; but whether true or complete fiction Bolitho knew that his could not be the only mind that was puzzling over this possibility. And indeed, in this he was more correct than he imagined.

"Not feeling ill are you, Mr. Bush?" the Doctor had asked in his customary cheerful manner as the company had seated themselves, the servants standing around the edge of the cabin silently pulling out the chairs for them.

"How do you mean, Doctor?" Bush had replied, his scowl deepening 'til it became positively quizzical.

"Just the cast of your face; you look particularly uncomfortable. A touch of wind, perhaps? It would be unfortunate to be troubled by indigestion before dinner has even begun."

Deverel had snorted heavily into his wineglass and Leat had quickly looked away in order to prevent himself from laughing or smiling, suspecting that neither would be welcomed by Bush. Opposite them Lieutenant Cartwright was studying his shoes intently, Bolitho guessing that he too was trying not to betray any amusement.

"And a very excellent dinner at that, if my nose does not deceive me," the Doctor continued. "Tell me, captain, is that chicken I smell next door?"

"Capon I believe, Doctor," Bolitho confirmed.

"It is not indigestion, sir," Bush said curtly.

"Are you certain?" asked the Doctor earnestly, apparently oblivious to the fact that Bush looked furious enough to explode. "It doesn't do to overlook these things. I am a doctor after all, and I am sure if Mr. Farley has no objections I could oblige you with a complete physical examination –"

"No!" Bush had snapped, but then he managed to reign in his temper, speaking levelly through gritted teeth. "Thank you. But no."

In the resulting silence the Doctor had made a brief but thorough study of the lieutenant with his eyes, then he had simply shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly in a gesture of defeat.

"As you wish."

Now calm settled on the table once more as the soup was served, and it was whilst the rest of the company was distracted by this that Miss Pollard leaned closer to the captain. Being the only lady present she was seated on Bolitho's left hand side, whereas Bush was on his right, as was his privilege as first lieutenant.

"I do hope the Doctor has not upset Mr. Bush," she whispered to Bolitho as the soup tureen made its sedate journey down the table. "Only he does tend to get a bit carried away and say things he doesn't realise might offend. He doesn't mean any harm by it, but it does so often lead to misunderstandings; some quite ugly misunderstandings at that, too."

"I should not worry, Miss Pollard," Bolitho said reassuringly, although inwardly he felt his heart sink at the information. To know that Dr. Smith had a history of causing offence was all he needed! However the captain was touched by her concern for Mr. Bush's feelings – perhaps because he bore so close a resemblance to her guardian? – and dutifully sought to allay her fears on the matter. "I know Mr. Bush to be of a civil enough nature to take any excessive enthusiasm as nothing more sinister."

At least Bolitho hoped that Bush would make an effort to keep himself civil. At present the lieutenant seemed far too concerned with ripping his bread roll apart before dunking it in the soup and chewing upon it with apparent vigour.

"I would not trouble yourself," Bolitho repeated gently.

Miss Pollard smiled – an enchanting smile, composed of a set of wonderfully even and white teeth – and placed her hand over his.

"I am so glad," she said with all appearance of sincerity in her wide, pretty blue eyes. "I would hate it if we were to get off on the wrong foot, so to speak, when I had hoped we might all be the best of friends."

Bolitho looked down with some surprise at the elegant hand resting on his. He swallowed awkwardly, feeling an odd panic rising in his breast. Hers was a gesture of deliberate familiarity, easily explained by girlish enthusiasm; yet he could not shake the feeling that it was some way improper.

"Naturally, Miss Pollard," he said lamely, unable to think of anything appropriately gallant.

Miss Pollard however smiled again, apparently delighted with Bolitho's pathetically non-descript answer, patting his hand gently before releasing it.

"That's alright then," she said.

Bolitho returned a watery smile, then hurriedly directed his attention to the contents of his plate.

xoxoxox

"…and that takes the hand. Fletcher wins again."

Mr. Midshipman Docker threw his cards down on the sea chest in anger, scattering the small stack of pennies and shillings that had accumulated there during the course of the game.

"It's not fair!" he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at little Simon Fletcher, who cringed back in fright, still clutching his winning hand. "He's cheated! He must cheat! He's won every game!"

"I can assure you, Docker, he does not cheat," Daniel Kinsella said, shaking his head in wonder. "Believe me, we've watched him closely each time and there's not a sign!"

"Then he's very good at cheating!" Docker persisted.

"I wish I were that good," James Slater uttered mournfully, as he gazed forlornly at the shilling sitting on the sea chest that until very recently had been his.

Four out of the _Terpsy_'s complement of six young gentlemen were gathered in their berth around the makeshift table; Daniel Kinsella, the next senior midshipman to Chandos, James Slater, Simon Fletcher and Douglas Docker. Harrison Bones, the other member of their berth, was currently standing watch with Mr. Tadcock on the quarterdeck. Docker had come across to the _Terpsy_ from the _Defiance _with Lieutenant Deverel, which made him the newest arrival. He was a thickset boy of sixteen with short brown hair, brown eyes and an open, round face, often found to contain an expression of confusion. It should have been easy for Docker to find his place in the midshipman's berth – he had always found it easy to get on with other boys – yet for some unknown reason this had turned out not to be the case. It may well have been the stigma of being 'Mr. Deverel's' young gentleman. Seeing as the crew knew that neither the captain, master or the senior lieutenants had any particular liking for Mr. Deverel this unfortunately reflected badly on Docker, and whilst the other boys didn't exactly reject him... they didn't exactly accept him either.

"Please, Docker," Fletcher dared to utter from behind his cards. "It's not my fault. I-I've tried to lose sometimes, but nothing I do makes any difference. I can't help it."

"Not your fault is it, eh?" Docker repeated mockingly, baring his teeth at Fletcher and making the poor boy shudder. Docker was usually a patient boy, but Fletcher's timid apology was worse than had he been crowing his success. "Come on, tell us how you did it, you little runt!"

"I-I didn't, I swear!"

"Then what is it – magic?" Docker exclaimed. He rose and reached over the sea chest, grabbing Fletcher by the lapels and hauling him upright, sending cards flying left and right."Witchcraft? You know what they do to witches, don't you, Fletcher?"

"That's enough!" Kinsella snapped, slamming his fist down on the chest and rising to his feet, Slater following suit. "Let him go, Docker, he's doing no harm."

"Harm!" Docker exclaimed. "He's robbed me of two shillings!"

"Then it's your own stupid fault for betting them!" Kinsella snapped. "And he played fair. Now put him down, Docker, or I'll see you regret it!"

For a moment Docker hesitated. His greater number of years spent at sea made him senior to Slater and Fletcher; but here Chandos ruled the roost, and Kinsella was a faithful second in command, and woe to the boy that thought he could carry on in a fashion that either Chandos or Kinsella did not consider 'fitting'! In the face of superior numbers and the threat of a beating from Kinsella's fists, Docker reluctantly let go of the quivering Fletcher, and glared furiously as the small boy took cover in a corner of the berth behind his own sea chest, watching his would be assailant with fear-filled eyes. This made Docker's heart sink. It was Fletcher's first voyage; he was only twelve years old, still very much a child, and despite all outward show or momentary fury Docker did not believe he could have brought himself to strike Fletcher. But the other midshipmen did not know that, and by his impetuosity just now he had roused them in defence of their weaker messmate, so driving the wedge further between him and them. Defeated, Docker sighed heavily.

"I'm going to take a turn up top," he muttered.

So saying he angrily shoved his hands in his pockets, turned his back on the others and stalked out of the berth, not noticing the hurried obediences made in his direction as he passed the men on the lower deck, an angry black cloud above his head. It was not fair that he should be singled out for such treatment, not fair that Kinsella should take on so, not fair that he was labelled as the outsider here. It was all Mr. Deverel's fault, he thought viciously as he headed for the forward companionway to go up on deck. If Deverel wasn't such a stupid, selfish prig; if Docker had come even a day later or from a different ship it would be a completely different story…

He stopped suddenly, his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, at a sudden noise.

Docker froze on the spot. He dropped his gaze to the companionway going down, opposite to the one he would have ascended. It led below to the orlop, the deck above the hold. Down there it was darker than the populated lower deck, there being no need for so many lanterns, and in the dark he thought there had been a whispering.

_Come on,_ It had said. _Before we are seen!_

Docker looked back over his shoulder, but none of the men were paying attention to him, too busy settling down for their own evening meal. What could this mean? Had he uncovered a conspiracy? There had been talk about one of the seamen – De Guarde was his name – who had been disrated from Midshipman to the lower deck for bad conduct. It was said someone had tried to end his life by throwing him overboard one night. All of this had occurred well before Docker had come aboard the _Terpsy_, but could this be an extension of that incident; a second attempt on De Guarde's life?

His gaze snapped down again as he caught the whispering once more; but this time it had seemed to shudder, as if it were laughing. Laughing at him.

Steeling all his courage, Docker put on his most severe expression of officerly disapproval and inched downwards into the gloom.

xoxoxox

After the initial 'hiccup' between the Doctor and Bush the first course had been eaten in relative silence. As host Bolitho did his utmost to get whatever conversation going that he could, which largely meant engaging with the Doctor or Miss Pollard, as few of the officers appeared brave enough to cross the imaginary battle lines drawn by Bush with his opening snipe, and which he continued to maintain with his sullen silence. Salvation came, however, in the form of Edward Leat. Just before the soup plates were cleared and the next course brought in – a very fine capon and a side of mutton – the redheaded lieutenant had rallied to his captain's aid.

"Mr. Foxley," he said, refilling his glass and passing the decanter (possibly unwisely) onto Deverel. "I have heard rumour from Mr. McNish that before you came to sea you sang bass in a vicar's choral. Pray, is it true?"

That Leat already knew this to be true was not the point of the conversation; what was relevant was that he knew that once on the subject of music there was little stopping the Purser, and as if on cue Foxley's face lit up.

"I must confess it to be true, Mr. Leat, hard though it may be to believe it to look at me now! At fifteen I was already a secure bass, enough to earn a wage at St. Martin in the Fields."

"Ah, St. Martin's!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Good old James Gibbs! A lovely little church, near Charing Cross - I know it intimately. Always had an excellent reputation for music, has St. Martin's."

Foxley, pleased by the recognition from such an illustrious guest, nodded enthusiastically.

"Aye, sir. Very high standards they had too for our training; practice no less than four times a week, with Wednesday evenings for our own leisure. A strict regime, but we sang like angels come Sunday."

"Remarkable!" exclaimed Deverel from behind his wine glass. He cast a sideways glance at Leat, grinning in what might be described as a sly manner. "What a musical mess we possess aboard the dear _Terpsy_. I hear you received some training in the vocal line too, Mr. Leat?"

Leat grimaced inwardly. Trust Deverel to pick on the delicate subject of that night ashore; no doubt thinking himself witty in his subtlety. Yet in all his sodden triumph Leat was certain that the third lieutenant could not even guess as to how sore a topic he had raised.

"A little," Leat admitted, which was far from the truth. He smiled neutrally. "My father thought it good for me. Tell us, Mr. Foxley, what was your choirmaster's opinion on Handel?"

This launched the table into a detailed conversation about music; favourite compositions by Handel, Vivaldi, the merits of various Bachs, recitals they had attended, musical talent to be found in the most unlikely of places, Rutland the bosun's mate's legendary rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus on the Jew's Harp (Once heard, never forgotten), and so on. Bolitho's relief was profound indeed, as music was a subject to which everyone could contribute, break off onto their own tangent and then rejoin the main flow of conversation again. He would have to remember it for future reference, in case such dire circumstances were to dog his table again. Which during this voyage seemed a distinct possibility.

Now with their initial reserve banished the majority of the officers, Bolitho included, started to warm to their unexpected guests. The Doctor had several highly amusing stories, which though they did not always get the punch line the company laughed uproariously at, as by now most had imbibed enough to be willing to be pleased and entertained. By the time pudding was brought out even Mr. Bush seemed to have mellowed... The only thing that could make the evening complete for Bolitho would be if Miss Pollard would stop flirting with him. Having established earlier that he was not married, engaged or in any way obligated, her advances had steadily become bolder in their nature and more frequent in their occurrence. Seated at his left she'd had ample opportunity throughout the dinner to make him increasingly uncomfortable; for as well as the odd fleeting touch from her hand she smiled very often, laughed and teased him gently, and once of twice he swore that he felt her ankle rub against his. His officers, infuriatingly enough, were not embarrassed on his behalf either. They could easily _see_that he was getting flustered by this delightful attention, but simply seemed amused at his discomfort – and he was sure he'd caught what was meant to be an encouraging wink from Farley, yet more looked as if the surgeon was trying to see up his own nose. He would not have minded so much; Miss Pollard was a charming girl, very attractive to look at, but far too young and innocent for her to know fully what she was doing, or to harbour any real desire of an amorous nature.

At least Bolitho hoped that was the case. That had been his belief at the beginning of the evening, yet as time wore on he had steadily grown less sure, and was fast coming to the conclusion that she was deliberately trying to bait him. From the expression on his face it appeared the Doctor suspected the same, and several times seemed on the point of upbraiding her for it before he thought better of it and turned away again. The captain found himself wishing that the Doctor would damn propriety and for once choose to be less discreet!

It was then, as Miss Pollard's foot was making a determined advance up Bolitho's calf, that disaster mercifully struck.

xoxoxox

There was nothing there. The cable tier was dark and empty, the space filled by the noisome coils of the anchor cables and the ever-present creak of the ships timbers; a single lantern by the companionway Docker had just come down barely penetrated the gloom. Nothing, except…

It may have been his imagination, but as Docker's eyes adjusted to the gloom he thought he detected a thicker patch of nothing; a denser shadow, roughly the shape and size of a man, but insubstantial, only just there. If he shifted his gaze slightly it was gone, and it took him a while to find it again. He also had the nasty sensation that this particular patch of nothing was staring back at him.

"Hello?" Docker called quietly. His voice trembled, seemed so small and instantly swallowed up by the overwhelming darkness. "Who is that there?"

Yet again there was no reply - only this time the patch of nothing wavered a fraction, the silence seeming to thicken, as if it were pausing; thinking.

_What are you, small thing?_

Docker started violently, his heart racing with fright. He had not heard a voice – he had not _heard_ anything – but he knew something had spoken, and that he understood what it was saying.

_Tell me what you are, small thing._

"Why?" Docker demanded. He did not like that voice. Something in its tone reminded him of dark nights in the nursery, of cupboards with creaking doors, of beasts that dwelt under the bed and phantasms that had made him hide under the blanket where he had remained until morning, shaking in fear as all his nightmares held court in the room beyond.

Meanwhile whatever It was paused, and this time Docker swore that he could feel it thinking.

_It is my wish to know._

Docker shivered again. He wanted to run, but his legs would not obey him, frozen as they were in his terror. This was worse than any nightmare or phantasm; worse than anything of those horrible things combined! But like every boy of sixteen years something within his mind compelled him to show defiance, to fight back and hide his fear even as it threatened to unman him.

"I'm not small!" Docker retorted stubbornly, spurred on into presenting at least a façade of courage. "And I am not a 'thing', I'm a boy! I-I mean a man; an officer. Mr. Midshipman Docker to you!"

There was another pregnant silence. And then came that creeping, chilling laugh.

_Thank you, Mr. Midshipman Docker._

The patch of nothing sprang, and Docker opened his mouth to scream.

xoxoxox

All conversation in the Great Cabin was abruptly cut short by a horrible, blood-curdling scream which seemed to rise up through the deck beams themselves, resonating from the very heart of the ship. Then just as suddenly as it had begun the scream died, leaving those about the captain's table in shocked silence.

There was a flurry of scraping chairs; Bolitho, the officers and the Doctor leaping to their feet as one and starting for the cabin door.

"Charley, stay here!" the Doctor commanded.

"What?" Charley cried, already halfway out of her seat. "Something happens and you want me to stay here?"

"Charley, please, just stay there!" the Doctor called over his shoulder as he raced out the door after Mr. Fitzpatrick, closely pursued by Cartwright and Foxley.

"Oh well, that's perfect!" Charley fumed angrily, as the cabin emptied and she was left to herself and the various stewards, who were exchanging anxious glances between them. "Perfect! I'll just sit here then, Doctor, whilst you run out and face the monsters like the good little girl I'm supposed to be. Like hell, I will!"

And so saying she marched out of the cabin, slamming the door on Catchpole's protests behind her and headed towards the commotion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"What was his name?" the Doctor asked.

"Dyer – Foretopman, larboard watch. My Division, sir," Deverel slurred, white with shock and swaying slightly. "Dear God. Poor fellow..."

All the officers and men that had rushed to the scene in the forward part of the ship were looking decidedly pale and astonished. Poor Midshipman Chandos looked as if he were about to be sick.

"Dead I'm afraid, sir," Farley said to Bolitho, shaking his head morosely as he got up from examining the sailor lying on the gun deck. "Not a breath in him, poor soul."

"What's happened?" Charley demanded as she finally arrived, somewhat out of breath. It had not been difficult to find where the officers had gone; all she'd had to do was follow the commotion. Yet even so she'd still taken a couple of wrong turns on the way. "Doctor?"

"I thought I told you to stay in the cabin?" the Doctor sighed in irritation. Charley merely glared at him.

"As if you expected me to!" she scoffed. So saying she turned to Bolitho, reckoning she would get more sense out of him. "Captain, please tell me what has happened."

"One of the men has died, Miss Pollard," Bolitho said awkwardly, still coming to terms with the unexpected turn of events. "And I am afraid I must agree with the Doctor in asking you to return to your cabin; it is not a sight for young ladies."

"I have seen death before, you know," Charley said primly. "And violent death at that."

Before anyone could stop her she stepped forward to see the body... and promptly halted, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Oh!" she gasped at the sight that confronted her. She then frowned, confused. "_Is_he dead?"

"I'm afraid so, miss," Farley said.

"But he's... Oh. Oh, yes, I see it now. Funny though; for a moment I could have sworn he was only knocked unconscious, or asleep perhaps."

The officers could easily forgive Miss Pollard for being mistaken. Dyer's body was curled up in a foetal position on the deck, his eyes closed and features blank, as if he were no more than sleeping peacefully. The only visible signs of death upon him were an extreme pallor and that there was no rise or fall of his chest to suggest that he was breathing.

"Who saw what happened?" Bolitho demanded, casting his eye over the assembled crew crowded about the tight ring of officers, each as pale-faced and shocked as the others. One of the elder sailors, a grey-haired man with several teeth missing, piped up.

"Dunno, sir, it were right queer. One moment he was fine, sitting there, eatin' and chattin' away like, then he went rigid and screamed fit to wake the damned. Last he went quiet, curled up and shut his eyes, like as he is now."

"Some sort of fit?" Bolitho asked, turning again to Farley, but the surgeon could only shake his head in bewilderment once more.

"As to that, sir, I will not be able to say without a thorough examination; there's no obvious mark, none of the signs I'd associate with a fit. Most peculiar thing too; he's stone cold."

"Well he's dead," Cartwright said simply. "The dead grow cold. What is strange about that?"

"I remarked upon it, Mr. Cartwright, because he has cooled unnaturally quickly. By these men's witness and the evidence of our own ears Dyer must have died barely a minute ago, yet there is no warmth in his body."

"A most peculiar effect indeed, Mr. Farley," the Doctor cut in, making the officers jump. He had been standing apparently deep in thought; so still and silent that they had all but forgotten he was there. "And one which might be more significant than you imagine. Would you have any objection to my making my own examination of the body?"

"Be my guest, Dr. Smith," Farley said, glancing briefly at Bolitho, who nodded his permission. "I don't suppose he will mind now. We will take him to the sick berth and you may have a closer look at him there."

"I thank you," the Doctor said quietly. "It may provide some much needed answers."

"This is absurd!" Bush protested, furious that Bolitho had not objected to the Doctor's interference. "The man is dead of a fit, it is clear to see; what 'answers' do we need? Are we to add insult to injury by allowing Dyer to become a specimen for the amusement of some quack?"

"I will have you take that back, Mr. Bush," the Doctor said sharply, an edge of steel to his voice for the first time.

"Take what back, sir?" Bush asked sarcastically.

"You have called me a quack and a timewaster, intent on my own amusement at the expense of others. I will have you take that back."

"I will not, sir!" Bush retorted, readily rising to the challenge, but seeing the danger looming the captain stepped in between them.

"Gentlemen, if you please!" Bolitho snapped, his voice cracking out like a whip. Order was instantly restored. "Mr. Bush, you will escort Miss Pollard back to her cabin and stay with her there until my return. I shall accompany the Doctor to the sickbay. Mr. Leat, you will also come with me if you please."

Bolitho caught the thunderous expression on Bush's face in time to stem the tirade of protest that would surely have followed.

"Is that clear, Mr. Bush?" he asked acidly.

Bush sorely wished to argue, but he had been chastised enough, and he knew to provoke Bolitho further would be foolish in the extreme. He responded with a flat; "Aye aye, sir." However Bolitho kept his stern gaze focussed on Bush for a moment longer, before giving an infinitesimal nod of satisfaction.

"Good. Carry on, then."

So saying he turned his back on the first lieutenant and followed Farley and Fitzpatrick, who were carrying Dyer below to the sickberth, the Doctor and Leat bringing up the rear of the tiny procession. An awkward silence fell as those officers and men left on the lower deck looked to Mr. Bush, wondering at this brief and unusual spat between the Premier and the captain, waiting for someone to tell them what to do next. Bush, feeling their scrutiny, did not leave them waiting long.

"Mr. Deverel," he said shortly. "You will get these men to their work. Mr. Tadcock, it is still your watch."

"Aye aye, sir!" Deverel stammered, still looking somewhat ill, but he rallied himself enough to do as Bush said, calling the men to order with; "Mr. Watts, you'll get these moon-calves moving again!" and similar cries. Once the deck had sprung back into activity Bush turned to Charley, his expression grim.

"Miss Pollard, I will escort you back to your cabin."

"Oh. Thank you," Charley said faintly, too unsettled by the sudden turn of events and too intimidated by the awfully stern look on Bush's face to agree to do anything but accept the lieutenant's offered arm and let him lead her away aft.

xoxoxox

Below decks, away forward in the dark of the cable tier, Docker was curled up in a ball, his knees under his chin and weeping gently. The midshipman did not know what had happened, but there was some Thing inside his head. He had not seen It clearly – just a rush of shadow that had come towards him – though he severely doubted that the Thing even had a form. Inside his mind he felt It stretching, testing the reach it had throughout his body; before shifting, settling down as if getting itself comfortable. It was the most horrible, gruesome sensation Docker had ever experienced.

_There,_ It said, when it had stopped moving. _That is better._

"Who are you?" Docker whispered. It laughed softly before replying.

_I am your nightmares._

Docker whimpered, and he felt It laugh again.

_Do not worry,_ It said. _I will not harm you; not yet. You will help me grow in strength until I have enough energy to take the Anomaly's form for myself._

"What are you going to do to me?" Docker asked, his voice barely audible.

_Do as I say and I will spare you the torment that will come to your fellows; disobey me or tell anyone of my presence within you and your torment will be so great that you will wish that I had killed you instead. Do we have an agreement?_

Docker could not bring himself to speak. He was selling his soul to a demon, betraying his captain and his shipmates – but what could he do? How could he fight a creature that had just stepped into his body as if it were putting on a coat? The predicament before him was too great, too frightening for him to even consider disobeying It. He didn't want to give in, he didn't want to go down without a fight, but he knew with terrible certainty that he had already lost. Docker swallowed, his mouth dry and his cheeks wet as he nodded stiffly in reply.

_Good. It shall be easier for us both this way._

"W-What are you going to do?" Docker whispered.

_I will feed,_ It said. _And I will become strong. I fed not long ago and I am stronger already, but I am still weak; far too weak for my purpose._

"But why me?" Docker whimpered. "Why me?"

_You are convenient. You are small and insignificant, yet aboard this vessel you may go where you please. No one looks at you unless they must, and no one questions you beyond the superficial. You are perfect for my purpose._

"P-Purpose?"

_To deceive the Time Lord, the one who calls himself 'the Doctor'. There was so much shadow aboard this vessel, so much dark but even here I was not safe from him; he would have found me in the end. I needed to hide, so I took the strength I needed to hide and _you_, Mr. Midshipman Docker, are my hiding place from the Time Lord. Now we are as one you will allow me to pass by him unnoticed, to get near my prey without raising suspicion, and to make sure all is prepared for me to take the Anomaly when the time is right._

Docker shivered again, crying silently, and burying his head in his arms.

_You are frightened, Mr. Midshipman Docker._It said.

"Yes!" Docker choked.

_Good, you should be. Now stand up, and let us be gone from here; there is work for us to do._

xoxoxox

Back in the Great Cabin the stewards were still clearing the remains of dinner from the captain's table. Despite this they drew back as Bush led Charley to the table, pulling out a chair for her to sit on and calling Catchpole to fetch some brandy.

"Thank you, Mr Bush," Charley said, somewhat embarrassed by the attention. "But I really am quite alright."

"I would suggest you take a glass anyway, Miss Pollard," Bush said firmly, handing her the small measure he had poured out. "From my experience it is often the case after a shock that one's nerves are shaken worse than at first professed. It has been the case a number of times that a fellow messmate with a glass has brought me back to myself, and that I have returned the favour."

Charley took the glass, sipping tentatively at the brandy as she had never really much had a taste for the spirit. She did appreciate the almost instant calming effect the simple, everyday action had on her though, and she gave the first lieutenant an embarrassed smile.

"I would not have thought anything capable of shaking you, Mr. Bush," she said, as the servants silently drifted back to their work around them, trying to not look as if they were listening to the conversation. Bush tilted his head to one side, his solemn features softening.

"None of us are wholly immune, Miss Pollard," he said, not unkindly. "No matter what our experience of death or disaster life still has the ability to unsettle us on occasion."

"You are very kind, Mr. Bush," Charley said softly, gazing directly up at Bush. How familiar the lieutenant's eyes were; _Just like the Doctor's eyes._"Truly. I cannot thank you enough."

Now it was Bush's turn to look embarrassed. He straitened his shoulders, his eyes darting away to the stern windows as he picked up his hat, making to leave.

"It is of no consequence, Miss Pollard, I assure you. And, if you'll excuse me, I must return –"

"No, please," Charley caught Bush's hand as he turned away. "Please. Stay and keep me company for a moment? I would appreciate it if you would."

Bush's gaze turned to the cabin door, clearly expressing his desire to escape – but he could not in all good conscience refuse a request for company from a young lady after so distressing an event. He pulled out the chair next to Charley and sat down.

"What do you wish to talk about, Miss Pollard?"

"Nothing really, or anything," she said, quite honestly. "It has been a while since I have properly talked with anyone. Travelling with the Doctor is all very well; you get to see so many fascinating places, meet new people… but then after a while you start to realise that you never really got to see those places – not much beyond a little – never really knew those people well. You're always moving on and never staying."

"Does the Doctor not talk to you?" Bush enquired, his brow furrowing.

"Not really, no. Well, he talks to me, but not _with_me, if you get my meaning. It's rare that he actually stops to listen to what I have to say."

"I can believe that," Bush commented with open contempt. "The man never seems to be still. He reminds me of… of a whirlwind in some fashion; never staying still and sweeping everything he encounters up in his path."

"Yes!" Charley laughed. "Yes, that's it exactly! Take your eye off him and he's moved on in an instant – that is him completely. That's why I'm so glad you're not like him in that sense, Mr. Bush; I don't think I could stand two of you being… Oh. I-I'm sorry." She stumbled to a halt as she saw the expression on Bush's face. "I didn't mean that I only wanted to talk to you because– I'm sorry. It's not been easy for you, I know, us being here; and I'm really sorry for the discomfort we've caused you."

From the previously thunderous expression on his countenance, Bush now grimaced in acute embarrassment.

"Is it that obvious?" he asked wretchedly.

"I'm afraid so," Charley replied. Mr. Bush's expression looked exactly like that which the Doctor adopted when he had been caught out in anything. Had the first lieutenant not been so genuinely upset she would have laughed, but in this case the coincidence was not anywhere near amusing.

"Oh God," Bush moaned, wiping his hands over his face in mortification. "What must you think of me, Miss Pollard? My behaviour towards your guardian has been appalling; I have known it to be so, even though I could sense the captain's disapproval and have ignored the warnings of my fellow officers. Lord, what has come over me to make be so bloody-minded? You'll excuse my French, miss -"

"It's alright," Charley said, placing a comforting hand on Bush's arm. "I know it can't be easy for you; a complete stranger turning up who looks exactly like you – I know I would be disconcerted in your place – but he doesn't mean to upset you. It came as much of a surprise to him as it did to you."

"Of that I am aware, Miss Pollard," Bush sighed, shaking his head in despair. "His and your own shock on seeing me for the first time was clear enough evidence of that. It is just... there is something _about_him. I know that I have always been prone to a quick temper, but with him it seems to become shorter than usual."

"He has that effect on people," Charley said dryly. "But that's not what you mean, is it, Mr. Bush?"

"No, it's not. It's hard to describe; a sort of unsettled feeling, here." He placed his hand to the right side of his breast. "I can't explain why, but his presence troubles me as little has troubled me before in my life. Why him, Miss Pollard? Why now? And why can I not shake the feeling that our meeting and Dyer's death marks the beginning of a dangerous time for us all?"

xoxoxox

The Doctor rolled up his sleeves and crouched down next to Dyer. He proceeded to feel for a pulse, lift up the seaman's eyelids, examine his hands and fingernails, his feet – and then he opened Dyer's shirt, took out a stethoscope from inside his coat (which had been thrown over the back of a nearby chair for the duration of this examination), and listened to his chest.

"What in Heaven's Name is that?" questioned Farley, looking on in fascination.

"A device for listening to the heartbeat," the Doctor said, swapping the stethoscope to the other side of Dyer's chest. "Also very useful for diagnosing breathing problems; works like an ear trumpet, but better."

"I should not have thought you would have much to listen to in a corpse, Doctor," quipped Bolitho, who had been standing by watching the whole process, Leat hovering just behind his right shoulder.

"You're probably right, captain," the Doctor said, removing the earpieces and straitening up. "Save this isn't a corpse. As I suspected, this man is not dead."

The captain, lieutenant, surgeon and his mates stared at Doctor in disbelief.

"Not dead?" Farley was the first one to shake off his astonishment. "Impossible!"

"Dr. Smith, what do you mean?" Bolitho demanded. "Mr. Farley said –"

"In the sense, captain, that I can still hear a heartbeat. And with all respect to Mr. Farley he did not check for a pulse, and here –" The Doctor laid two fingers against Dyer's neck. "– there is a pulse. Very faint, but it's there."

Farley felt Dyer's neck where the Doctor directed, then drew his hand back swiftly, as if he had been stung.

"By all the...!" the surgeon exclaimed, utterly dumbfounded. "But how? He is cold, and he doesn't breathe."

"He's in some form of stasis –"

"Stasis?"

"Hibernation, if you will." The Doctor frowned, once again lifting the lid of one of Dyer's eyes and watching the pupil contract. "He could stay this way for decades and not come to any harm."

"But how did he get like that?" Fitzpatrick pressed. "What could have caused it?"

"That, gentlemen, is exactly what I don't know," the Doctor replied. "But it is what I intend to find out."

"Then I hope you intend to do so very soon, Dr. Smith," Bolitho said crisply. "Lest this affliction turns out to be contagious!" So saying the captain turned to Farley. "Have someone keep a constant watch on him, and let me know the moment there is any change in him."

The surgeon nodded. "Aye, sir."

"Doctor," Bolitho said, returning his attention to his passenger, who had secreted the stethoscope once more inside his coat pocket. "I am aware that the Admiralty has given you a free hand in this matter, but I will make it clear to you here and now that I expect to be kept informed of any new developments your investigations may bring to light. Understood?"

"You have my word, Captain Bolitho," the Doctor said solemnly. Bolitho nodded curtly, then turned on his heel and left the sickbay, heading once more for his cabin. Glancing thoughtfully at the captain's retreating figure, the Doctor rolled his sleeves down and put his coat back on.

"My thanks, Mr. Farley," he said to the surgeon, before he also left the sickberth and headed topside. However the Doctor had not got more than a few paces before he heard rapid footsteps behind him and pale hand grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn around. It was Leat.

"How could you tell that man was still living?" the young lieutenant demanded. The Doctor shrugged.

"Oh, one gets an instinct for this sort of thing."

"Don't try my patience, sir!" Leat growled, the expression in his eyes sharp. "He looked like a corpse to me."

"And you would know, wouldn't you?" the Doctor said, suddenly lowering his voice and turning his full attention to the redheaded lieutenant. "Death having been your former trade. I expect you would know a corpse when you see one."

Leat became uncomfortable under the intense blue gaze, his momentary flare of anger dying down; yet he did not relax his grip on the Doctor's coat.

"I know I can thank McNish for informing you of that. Yes, I was an undertaker – and yes, I pride myself on being able to tell the living from the dead. My father knew his trade, sir; we kept our clients safe from the surgeons and there was not one case of anyone being buried alive by mistake. Not one!"

"I do not doubt it," the Doctor said, soothingly. "Which means I would expect you probably know more about corpses than anyone else aboard, am I correct?"

"I suppose I must, sir," Leat said carefully.

"Good, because in answer to your own question I want you to think hard, Mr. Leat. Did anything about Dyer's corpse strike you as odd?"

The lieutenant frowned.

"But you have said that he is not dead, sir."

"No, he isn't; but to all intents and purposes he appeared to be a corpse, so I want you to think of him for the moment as that; a normal corpse. So tell me, Mr. Leat, is there anything about this supposedly normal corpse that you think or even sense to be wrong?"

Leat's brow creased further, conjuring up a mental image of Dyer's body.

"He was too cold to have died recently," he hazarded, but the Doctor waved a hand impatiently.

"We've already established that. Come on, Mr. Leat, you can do better than that!"

"No wound, sir," Leat said after a further moment's silence. "Not a mark on him at all."

"Good. Anything else?"

"He died too quick for poison or his heart giving out; no sign of convulsions, no foam, spittle or blood at his mouth. And I thought he was too neat, sir, too peaceful. That scream we heard was that of a man dying a violent death, but there he was lying curled up, eyes closed as if sleeping. It doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't, does it?" the Doctor said, pleased to tally the lieutenant's observations against his own. "Not unless you are considering other options beyond the usual causes of death."

Leat's gaze snapped back to the Doctor, his startled blue eyes meeting the other man's.

"You knew this was going to happen?"

"Not this," the Doctor admitted grudgingly. "Not in this fashion; but yes, I knew there would be trouble of some sort. And I'm here to put a stop to it, before anyone else gets hurt. But to do that, first I must discover what _it_is; thereby working out the cause and so effecting the cure."

Both men lapsed into silence. Beyond the creaking ship's timbers they could hear the waves pounding against the hull, the cries of the bosun and the sails snapping taught as the ship was brought round onto the other tack. At length Leat spoke.

"Are you really a doctor, sir?" he asked.

"I am."

"A doctor of medicine?"

_Good, Mr. Leat,_the Doctor thought. He smiled. "A doctor of Science primarily, but I am a qualified physician. I studied in Edinburgh."

"My mother always said the Scots are the best scientists in the world," Leat reflected aloud, somewhat wistfully. "More open-minded in their studies. Would you call yourself open-minded, Doctor?"

"I try to be, Mr. Leat," the Doctor replied cautiously, eyeing the lieutenant with renewed interest. "Is there something particular you might need me to be open-minded about?"

The lieutenant glanced at the Doctor warily, then checked round the rest of the deck to see if they were alone. After some internal consideration he opened his mouth, about to say something – but then he hesitated, apparently thinking better of it and shook his head.

"It is not important. Forgive me," he said bluntly, and the Doctor felt his heart sink. He could not push the lieutenant for information; not yet. Besides, it may well turn out not to be important after all, as Leat said. Instead they walked on towards the aft companionway together; their pace slow, another awkward silence falling between them.

"I am sorry that to have caused Mr. Bush considerable inconvenience," the Doctor said after a while, deciding to change the subject to another that was troubling him. "My presence aboard seems to be a constant irritant to him."

"It is my fault I fear, Doctor," Leat sighed, also glad for the change in subject. "I took a great liberty in assuming that you were related without consulting either him or yourself. He has forgiven me, sure, but I don't think he has forgiven you for taking advantage of my error; nor for the gossip your appearance has created below decks."

"I know that was unforgivably underhand of me; but gossip? What gossip?"

"That you are in fact related."

"Does Mr. Bush think we are?"

Here Leat paused, looking once more at the Doctor warily.

"Understand, sir, that I tell you this in the strictest confidence."

"Absolutely."

"He isn't sure. He is adamant that he has never been told of any brother or cousin; but there is something about you, a 'weird feeling' he describes it as, that some inner force is drawing the two of you together, and he does not like feeling that he is not in control of his own fate. What about you, Doctor? How do you explain this coincidence?"

"I too was brought up believing that I have no brother," the Doctor replied, shrugging once more. "I was an only child, I am told... Yet I feel the same as Mr. Bush; the sense that something is pulling us together which I cannot shake. The feeling is here."

The Doctor seemingly absently placed his hand to the right side of his breast, and it was with some satisfaction that he caught the brief expression of alarm that appeared in Leat's eyes before the lieutenant had a chance to master his emotions once more.

"Curious, is it not?" the Doctor asked mildly.

"Most peculiar," Leat replied woodenly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

It was at a quarter to eleven, whilst he was standing his watch on the quarterdeck later that evening, when Lieutenant Leat sent for the armourer, Jenner. Jenner duly arrived ten minutes later, finishing shrugging on his coat and doing his best to try and suppress a yawn.

"Sent for, sir," Jenner said, knuckling his forehead. As one of the _Terpsichore_'s inferior warrant officers the armourer did not have to stand a watch, so as a rule Jenner worked during the day and had the luxury of his nights for sleep. For Mister Leat to have called him at this hour Jenner knew that the matter must be urgent; therefore he was completely baffled when the lieutenant asked him, in quite a casual manner;

"How are we for nails, Mr. Jenner?"

Jenner blinked, astounded. "Nails, sir?" Was this what he had been summoned for in the middle of the night? If Mr. Leat was that desperate to have known the state of the ship's stores he could simply have sent for the purser's books and found out the answer for himself instead of bothering him! For a moment Jenner wondered if the young lieutenant was suffering from moon pall but Leat, however, regarded the armourer with his usual steady gaze and repeated the question.

"Six inch nails specifically, Mr. Jenner. Do we have plenty aboard?"

"Aye, sir. Plenty as far as I know, and plenty more spare besides, us being so recent out of port."

"Good." Leat turned to the midshipman of the watch, who was standing a few paces away at the leeward rail and addressed him. "Mr. Slater, you will oblige me by checking our present course against the compass, if you please."

Jenner wondered at this unusual and rather unnecessary instruction, for he knew for certain Mr. Leat would be more than aware of their present course, but thinking nothing of it young Slater touched his hat and trotted up the ladder to the poop deck. Having sent Slater away, Leat reached into his coat and drew out a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket, which he then handed to Jenner.

"You are to make fifty of these before six bells in the morning watch," Leat said, lowering his voice as Jenner took the paper. "It is of the utmost importance. You have permission to use the spare six inch nails, and you are to bring a tally of all materials used directly to me."

Baffled, Jenner unfolded the paper and stared at the particulars the lieutenant had set down for him, along with a diagram of the finished article. He nearly choked with disbelief.

"Is something amiss, Mister Jenner?" Leat asked lightly.

"No, sir, but I..." Jenner faltered, shaking his head and frowning at the lieutenant. "With all due respect, Mr. Leat, is this some sort of joke?"

The lieutenant's features took on a hard expression.

"I assure you I do not joke about matters concerning the ship, Mr. Jenner," he said sharply. "Let us be clear on that. It is of the utmost importance that you produce fifty of the specified items before the end of the morning watch. Deliver the first twenty to me when you have made them, and so on for the remaining thirty. I do not anticipate that it will take you long."

"No sir," Jenner mumbled. He studied the paper again, his brow creasing and he shook his head once more. "But why, sir? What can you need them for?"

"That, Mr. Jenner, you shall regrettably see soon enough," Leat said, somewhat darkly. "For now simply concentrate your efforts on production, as I fear there is the possibility that fifty may not prove to be enough."

"Aye, sir," Jenner replied morosely.

"And Jenner," Leat added sternly, halting the armourer as he made to leave the quarterdeck. "Understand that it is the captain's wish that no one should learn the nature of your work. Above all you are not to inform Dr. Smith or Miss Pollard, even if either asks you directly."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Then let us say no more about it for the present. Carry on, Mr. Jenner."

xoxoxox

Having left Lieutenant Leat at the forward companionway the Doctor had gone back to the sickberth to make another examination of Dyer; this time without either Captain Bolitho or one of his lieutenants breathing down his neck. He managed to distract Farley long enough by demonstrating the stethoscope, then whilst the surgeon was experimenting with it on his few present patients the Doctor managed to complete a couple of scans with his sonic screwdriver. What he found, when he'd had time to view the results after answering Farley's numerous excited questions and had escaped the sickberth once more, made him very worried indeed.

The thought of worry naturally led him to think of Charley, and on reflection he thought he had better check up on her, seeing as he had not seen her since Dyer's 'misfortune'. She had seemed unusually distressed at the time, he recalled vaguely, and he reasoned a brief friendly chat would not be a bad idea. He made his way aft to the Great Cabin, and on arriving the Marine sentry let him in unannounced (It would seem Bolitho was elsewhere). He crossed swiftly to the sleeping cabin door and knocked.

"Charlotte?" he called, for appearance's sake. The Marine outside would still be able to hear him at this point. "Would you let me in?"

The door was opened by Alice, who curtsied when she saw it was her employer and stood to one side to let him in. Charley was seated at a small table which had for the time-being been converted into her dressing table. She had just swapped her green ensemble for a nightdress and pale pink dressing gown, and was in the process of removing her earrings.

"Thank you, Alice," she said, putting the earrings in her jewellery box and closing the lid. "If you will take these to the Doctor's cabin for me? Then that shall be all for this evening."

"Thank you, miss," Alice replied softly, taking up the box and bobbing another curtsey to the Doctor, flushing somewhat at his answering smile before leaving the cabin hurriedly.

"I think she's taken a shine to you, Doctor," Charley said, grinning mischievously.

"Rubbish!" Doctor scoffed, as the door shut behind them. "You're imagining it. Anyway, enjoying living the high life are we, Charley? You seem to be fitting into your role most comfortably."

"No more than you," she quipped in return. "Besides, it's not that much different to being at home in 1930. Cissy, Peg and I all shared a maid when we were home for the holidays." Charley smiled. "And it does rather go with the part, doesn't it? If anyone's being out of the ordinary it's you."

"Me? What makes you say that?"

"Well, you're a gentleman, aren't you? So you should have a manservant. Alice has been wondering why you don't."

"Oh, I can never abide servants," the Doctor whinged. "Always nagging you about your routine and finding nasty things in your pockets."

"Do they?"

"The last one did."

"Poor him!"

"What I meant to ask was, before you distracted me from the subject –" the Doctor continued dismissively. "– was if you were alright? You seemed somewhat shaken after we discovered Dyer; I thought you might need some company."

"Oh." Charley lowered her eyes to the deck. "Yes, that was a bit of a shock. But I'm fine now."

"Are you sure?" the Doctor asked, frowning. This was unusual behaviour from Charley. "You don't sound it."

"Yes. Yes, quite sure. Lieutenant Bush was kind enough to sit with me a while, just to make sure I was alright. He made me drink a glass of brandy to steady my nerves, which was sweet of him." She smiled, twisting her fingers in the hem of her dressing gown. "I think he's quite the gentleman under that grim façade, though he does his best to hide it."

"Is he now?" the Doctor murmured. "That's very interesting."

"Make it sound like something sinister, why don't you?" Charley complained, lifting her eyes again and glowering at the Doctor.

"Only because it's just what I would have done," the Doctor replied defensively. "If I hadn't had to examine Dyer immediately, that is, before the trail went cold so to speak. Obviously."

"Obviously," Charley echoed, not entirely convinced.

"But did you manage to talk to him at all?" the Doctor asked, thinking it was better not to dwell on his social shortcomings.

"Yes, we spoke."

"What about?"

"Nothing much in particular," Charley said evasively.

"Nothing much in particular about what?" the Doctor pressed. "It really is important, Charley."

"Well..." She was twisting her fingers in her gown again. "Actually, Doctor we ended up talking about you. We didn't mean to, but it just sort of happened."

"Even better!" the Doctor said, smiling eagerly. "Some of the best conversations happen when you don't mean them to."

Charley frowned, puzzled.

"You're not even a little upset with us for talking about you behind your back?"

"Not at all. What did he say about me?"

Charley hesitated a moment, gathering her thoughts before she began and trying to remember the lieutenant's exact words – or at least the words that weren't too insulting to the Doctor.

"He's worried about you."

"Worried?"

"Yes, that was the word he used; 'worried'. He thinks that yours and his meeting is a portent of disaster."

"How so?" the Doctor queried.

"He's not sure, but it has a lot to do with an odd sensation he feels in his chest whenever he bumps into you. He says it makes him feel as if there's some force pulling you two together that he can't escape nor control – that's why he's been so short with you, because he's being careful. And add to that our somewhat underhanded method of getting aboard, the gossip about you two being related, and now Dyer's fit... Well, is it any wonder that he's afraid of what might happen next?"

"No," the Doctor admitted, perching on the only other chair in the cabin. "I wouldn't blame him; it's how I've been feeling a lot lately. Did he say anything about himself; about siblings, or where he was brought up? The popular theory with the crew at the moment appears to be that we are estranged brothers."

"Funnily enough he did touch on that too. He's got a mother and three unmarried sisters at home in Chichester, he being the youngest of them all. His father is long dead so he's pretty much the sole bread-winner of the family, which isn't exactly the best of circumstances seeing as they were never that well off to start with."

"You certainly found out a lot in the space of half an hour," the Doctor observed.

"You did ask," Charley said dryly. "And fascinating though all this must be, Doctor, this is distracting us from finding the Shade-creature. It's already taken one victim by the looks of things, and wondering about Mr. Bush is not going to help us in stopping it."

"Oh, but you're wrong Charley," the Doctor said, shaking his head sadly. "I think Mr. Bush has everything to do with this. I managed to get a reading of Dyer from the screwdriver whilst no one was looking, and knowing what I do know now, I'm starting to suspect that our spectral friend may not have chosen this ship at random – and if it didn't come here by accident I have a feeling that our good Mr. Bush may be in terrible danger."

"What do you mean?"

"There's something not right about him, and if he sets my senses jangling then it's certainly going to have excited the Shade. It may well have been attracted by the aura of 'wrongness' that surrounds him, and it may well want him for something because of that. But it all depends on which of us gets to him first; me, or our shadow."

"Poor William!" Charley murmured. "Oughtn't we to warn him or something? Tell him to be on his guard?"

"Against what, Charley? Shadows? Besides, if he was in any immediate danger the Shade would have attacked him by now; it's had ample opportunity. My guess is that all those millennia in the Void not only addled its senses but also weakened it significantly, and so it's hiding out; gathering its strength before it goes for the kill. That was what I believe happened to Dyer; the scan I took of him shows he's been drained of all active energy. It literally fed off his life force."

"Like some sort of... Some sort of vampire?"

"An energy vampire? Yes; very neatly put, Charley. No, it's nothing like that. But leaving that for a moment, I believe the key to all this is finding out just exactly what Mr. Bush _is_. If I can ascertain that then perhaps I can discover just what this creature may want from him, and then stop it before it gets it."

"But you said before that he was human!" Charley protested. "'So obviously human it would be unthinkable to suggest otherwise' you said."

"And I said I never trust the obvious. I'm still hesitant to guess as to his true nature, but I am becoming more certain in my theories."

"Such as?" Charley persisted. The Doctor sighed, turning to her and placing his hand on the right side of his chest.

"What would you say I was doing, Charley?"

"Putting your hand on your heart," she replied simply. "On one of them, anyway."

"Exactly. But if Mr. Bush was doing the same, what would you say he'd be doing?"

"Suffering from indigestion?"

"Charley!"

"Sorry." She frowned, pursing her lips as she considered her answer. "I can't really think of what else he could be doing, though. Humans don't have hearts on the right side of their chests, so he couldn't..." The words dried up in her throat, her eyes widening as she realised what the Doctor was implying. "You're saying you think he might actually have two hearts?"

"Maybe, or maybe not at the moment. Possibly at one point in the past or the future; I doubt if he himself is certain. One way or another I need to find out soon. If only I could convince him to let me examine him –"

"Couldn't you persuade him to do so on some made-up medical grounds?" Charley asked, but the Doctor shook his head.

"No, I'd need the surgeon's permission, and even then I would have to have Farley there with me all the time; professional courtesy and all that. Doctors can't just go examining each others' patients without the others' approval. It's a good, civilized system but it would rather cramp my style."

"What then?" Charley asked.

"I –" The Doctor sighed, his expression changing to one of acute embarrassment. "I was wondering if you would persuade him for me."

"Me?" Charley exclaimed. "Why not you?"

"I would," the Doctor insisted. "But, well, we didn't quite hit it off on the right note. Besides, telling you so much about himself means that he trusts you, and if he trusts you then you will be able to persuade him into allowing me to perform an examination."

"Well, I suppose if you put it like that," Charley said, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. "But I think, truth be told, he was quite glad of someone to talk to who wouldn't go blurting all he said to the captain or the rest of the crew. I think he must be quite lonely sometimes, being on a ship with so many people but no one really to confide in."

"If I didn't know any better," the Doctor said, casting a suspicious sideways glance at Charley. "I would say that you are taking quite a fancy to Mr. William Bush."

"What!" Charley turned a shade of pink that clashed horribly with her dressing gown. "Never!"

"On the contrary, it's only natural I think," the Doctor continued, oblivious to the embarrassment he was causing. "He looks like me, sounds like me, acts like me and I suppose, to a certain degree, thinks like me – and, since he was willing to confide so much in you, apparently returns the feeling of trust. It's only logical that you should start feeling an affection for him."

"Doctor!"

"I wouldn't waste your time in becoming too attached, Charley. This is going to prove complicated, and if we survive he'll probably choose to stay here in the end. Very sad and very messy; been there, done that. We'll just have to hope that he'll be sensible about it too."

"Oh...!" Charley got up angrily from the table, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her shoulders and crossing to the hanging cot. "I am going to bed now, Dr. Smith," she said haughtily. "So if you will be so kind as to vacate my cabin I will be much obliged."

"You're going to bed?" the Doctor repeated, confused by the abrupt end of the conversation.

"Yes, I am!" Charley snapped. "Or very soon will be, once you have left. Oh, and you can talk to Mr. Bush yourself, Doctor, because I'm not going to. It's high time you both stopped acting like squabbling little boys and actually talked to each other – you may find it produces far better results than just guessing!"

xoxoxox

Meanwhile Alice had returned her mistress' jewels to the Doctor's cabin. Stepping outside the wardroom, through the Marines' mess where she received several inquisitive glances and a couple of hopeful smiles, she was left wondering what to do with the rest of her evening. Miss Pollard wished undoubtedly to talk to her guardian alone for a while – Alice was not fooled for a moment into thinking that her dismissal had been for any other reason. Not that she resented the pretence at all; her previous mistress would not have shown her half so much courtesy. The old dowager had ordered her about like a pet dog, or at worst ignored her as if she had been no more than a piece of furniture; but Miss Pollard was not like that at all. Miss Pollard smiled at her, talked to her, was happy to ask her opinion of things and listen, and above all treated her like another person with thoughts and feelings of her own. She could be happy, Alice felt, with such a position for the rest of her life; plus there was the added benefit of travelling, which she gathered was something Dr. Smith did a lot. She had never been much possessed of an adventurous nature before – it had taken all her courage to make the trip from Gibraltar to Lisbon on her own – but the idea of visiting new places, new lands and new peoples was starting to appeal to Alice greatly, and she was determined to apply to the Doctor to see if he would consider keeping her on beyond the end of this voyage.

Returning her thoughts to her present situation, Alice guessed that she had about an hour to wait before Dr. Smith would take his leave of his ward and she could return to the cabin and retire; but what to do until then? She had no work she could do; no mending or washing that either Miss Pollard or Dr. Smith had provided her with (which she found very odd indeed), and as a passenger there was no cleaning or cooking to be done aboard ship. She supposed she could start taking in the waist of her other dress; a job she had thought of attempting a few days before the start of her new employment, but which worry and idleness had put off.

Her things were in the hold, though, where she had been warned not to go alone. There was always the danger, Mr. Deverel had said, of the ship catching her off balance and throwing her down the companionway into the darkness beneath, or of something falling on her that might have broken loose of its lashings. She would have to ask one of the sailors then; that nice Jacob Chase, perhaps? Chase had been very attentive to her when she first came aboard, had showed her over the ship and warned her where she could go and what she must not do, how to behave properly to the officers and not to take any nonsense from the men; all of which had been said in the kindest manner and with one of the nicest smiles she had ever seen on a man. Almost as nice as the Doctor's, she thought – and immediately she blushed at making the comparison, feeling foolish for even thinking it. Chase, though, she felt certain would not mind going down to the hold to retrieve her things. He would be off watch at the moment too, and could probably be found up on deck near the front part of the ship. He'd specifically told her that was where he was likely to spend his free time...

"Miss Bradbury?"

Alice gasped and turned, surprised to find that she had suddenly been addressed by one of the _Terpsichore_'s midshipmen – the 'young gentlemen', as Chase had called them.

"You gave me a fright, sir!" Alice said, clasping her hands together over her heart. It was beating furiously.

"I'm s-sorry, I did?" Docker stammered, clearly taken as much aback by her surprise as she.

"Yes, sir," Alice replied, telling herself that she was a fool to have been taken so easily unawares. "Only I didn't hear you approaching, is all. It's Mr. Docker, isn't it? Jacob Chase named all the ship's officers to me when I came aboard."

Docker flinched, apparently discomforted, or most likely embarrassed at being recognised.

"Er, yes." Docker said. "Yes, it is."

Alice smiled at him, and again saw Docker flinch. He could not be that old, she reckoned; about fifteen, or sixteen? She remembered how awkward her own brother, Peter, had been at that age, how tongue-tied in conversation with any stranger. Not to mention Mr. Docker looked quite pale and ill-at-ease. He did not look well at all.

"Was there something you wanted, sir?" she asked, not unkindly. "Or something the matter? You do look somewhat upset, if you don't mind my saying so. Are you feeling unwell?"

_We are wasting time. Do what you have come to do._

Alice blinked, and looked around in confusion. For a moment she could have sworn she had heard a voice and that it had come from Mr. Docker; but it had been nothing like Docker's voice, and the midshipman had not moved his lips. However, before she could ask him whether he had heard the voice too Docker shivered, then appeared to steel himself and cleared his throat.

"Miss Bradbury, Mr. Deverel sent me to find you. His compliments, and he'd like to discuss with you the arrangements for where you should mess during mealtimes and the details of your ration. He would have come himself, but he has been called to the carpenter's store. I will take you to him."

"At this hour?" Alice queried. Even in her limited experience it seemed strange for someone to wish to discuss such paltry matters as eating arrangements for a ladies' maid at this time of night, yet Docker was insistent.

"It will not take long, miss; he told me to be as quick as possible. Please come with me."

So Alice, still puzzling over this summons, hurriedly followed Docker to the aft companionway where they descended into the gloom of the deck below.

xoxoxox

Feeling duly chastised the Doctor went below to the wardroom to seek out Mr. Bush. Charley was right, as usual; he had been making this more complicated than necessary by putting off talking to Bush (By putting off talking to Bolitho too, but he'd rectify that soon as well), yet if Bush feared what their meeting might mean, then how much more worried was he himself? There was, though, regrettably only one way of going about it, and so determined to grab the Nimon by the horns, the Doctor knocked on the first lieutenant's cabin door.

"Come!" Bush called sharply from inside the cabin. The Doctor sighed.

"Well, Doctor," he murmured. "In for a penny..." Then his face broke into a smile, he pushed the door open and practically bounded into the cabin, shutting the door smartly behind him. "Good evening, Mr. Bush! Sorry to barge in on you like this but it is terribly urgent, and I'd rather not put off speaking to you any longer."

"How dare you, sir!" Bush exclaimed, having been startled out of his chair by the Doctor's explosive entry. "What mean you by entering my cabin in such a manner?"

"I have been meaning to speak with you ever since I came aboard, Mr. Bush," the Doctor said, his eyes flickering across to the desk where Bush had been sitting in shirt sleeves prior to his arrival; it appeared that Bush had been writing a letter. The lieutenant's coat and waistcoat lay neatly folded on his sea chest. "There are rumours abroad about the two of us, and I think it is high time that we discussed them."

"There is no need to discuss that which is not true," Bush said shortly.

"If you believe that then I'm amazed you've survived in the navy for so long," the Doctor retorted, returning his now serious gaze to Bush once more. "Keeping a cap on superstition and rumour is a daily task for yourself and your fellow officers; there is every need to discuss what may or may not be true, before the rumours gain strength and spiral out of control. Is that your handwriting?"

Bush glanced to the desk, his eyes resting on the half-finished letter. "Yes, of course that's my handwriting!" he growled, thrown and somewhat irritated by the sudden change of subject. "Who else's would it be?"

"Interesting," the Doctor murmured, his eyes alight with excitement once more. "Very interesting, and just the proof I was looking for – I honestly thought I'd have to demand to see your watch. You have just saved me asking a lot of awkward questions, Mr. Bush. It does however make the need to speak with you all the more urgent, which means I am very glad I decided to come along this evening."

"Then say what you mean to say, sir, and be gone!" Bush snapped, not in the least bit impressed by the implication of urgency. "I tire of these guessing games."

"As do I," the Doctor said stonily. "Sit down, Mr. Bush, and I will begin."

Infuriated though he was, Bush did as he was told and sat down once more, glowering up at the Doctor. "Will this take long?" he asked impatiently.

"Not if you don't keep interrupting me," the Doctor replied, a measure of calm returning to his voice. "First of all, Mr. Bush, where were you born?"

"None of your damned business."

"I would like an answer, please, if it would not be too much trouble."

"Chichester," Bush said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Why did the way the man asked the question imply the answer was some sort of guilty secret?

"That much I've heard from Charlotte," the Doctor commented. "And you have family there; three sisters and your mother?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Is it, though?" the Doctor asked, his gaze suddenly boring into Bush. "Is there perhaps a small detail you left out? Because when you say your mother, I believe you mean your stepmother. Am I not right?"

The lieutenant frowned, but gave an infinitesimal nod of his head in confirmation.

"That's true enough," he said. "Though there's no secret about it. My real mother died shortly after I was born, and my father remarried a few months afterwards for my sisters' sake. How could you possibly know that, though?"

"By a process of elimination and an educated guess," the Doctor replied. Inside his chest his hearts were beating wildly with excitement. "And at the same time it gives me an answer to the question that has been plaguing me ever since I came aboard. I can tell you now, Mr. Bush, the gossip mongers are correct; there is a connection between us, but I don't think even they could ever guess the true extent of the matter."

"Speak plainly, sir," Bush demanded, doing his level best to keep calm. Within his chest his heart was beating rapidly, and again he felt that near painful sensation in the right side of his chest. "Or perhaps you choose to mince your words because you are clutching at straws? Yes, there is an uncanny resemblance between us in voice and appearance, but we are nothing alike in our social standing or origins. There cannot be any connection between us."

"You think I am lying to you?" the Doctor said lightly.

"I know you are lying." Bush's answer came without hesitation. The Doctor's expression turned grim and he leaned forward, Bush unconsciously mirroring his actions.

"Why, do you think, would I lie about this?" the Doctor asked, lowering his voice.

"No one knows anything of you, Dr. Smith – if that is even your real name! You came aboard with no warning, took advantage of an honest mistake made by one of my brother officers, tricked the captain somehow with false credentials –"

"_False_credentials?"

"I saw that paper, Doctor, and it was blank! Lord knows how it deceived the captain, as he is no fool, but your sleight of hand did not work on me."

"I must congratulate you then," the Doctor commented, genuinely impressed. "You're the first person I know that hasn't fallen for it. Even I've never seen it blank before."

"My point being, Doctor," Bush continued, gritting his teeth. "Is that you are dishonest by nature. I have no idea what part I may play in your plans, whatever they may be, but I can assure you that so far your conduct has given me no reason whatsoever to believe you would ever tell me anything but lies."

"Then look me in the eyes, Mr. Bush," the Doctor said firmly, lowering his voice to a soft, challenging pitch. "Look me in the eyes and tell me I am a liar. Then you'll see for yourself if the truth is there."

Blood ran hot through Bush's veins. On top of all that had gone before, on top of all the insults and insanity, he could not resist such a challenge.

"Gladly!" he hissed, and he was instantly out of his seat, striding across the narrow confines of the cabin so that their faces were barely two inches apart, and stared hard into the Doctor's eyes.

Every ounce of frustration and rage Bush had felt over the past two days boiled over and was directed at the Doctor. Such a poisonous glare had cowed some of the hardest cases in the King's Navy in the past... yet the lieutenant was astonished to find no intimidation, no anger, no defiance, no emotion at all in those steady blue eyes; just openness. An invitation. An invitation to what, though? To honesty? To truth? Bush mentally scoffed at the idea, his stare becoming harder. There had to be more to it than that! And all of a sudden he realised there was – there, just behind the eyes – something, a spark, burning in the bright blueness. Before his mind Bush saw it come closer, saw it unfolding to fill his senses, felt it draw him in and make him _look_.

And, pulling back his defences, the Doctor allowed Bush in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

There was brightness: a light, a noise, faces – so many faces – the sun, the moon, the stars of a hundred billion worlds dancing through his head living and dying, each shining bright and beautiful. And there was a voice that whispered a word, a name to him; whispered over and over again as if his life depended on it. One name above millions: one name that was bigger, bolder, more powerful and more precious than any other known to him... He tried to concentrate, tried to bring what he was seeing into some sort of focus but he was going under, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and sensations that swirled around him and all he could do was be swept along in their wake.

And that was when Bush's mind rebelled. He pushed away, pulled back from the Doctor's eyes and shut his own, the cabin seeming to spin about him as utterly disorientated he stumbled backwards over the chair and fell to the deck with an almighty crash. For a moment he just lay there, blinded and alone in the darkness, listening to his own frantic heartbeat pounding in his ears. _One-two. One-two. One-two._ The sensation in the right side of his chest had grown a hundred times stronger, so strong that it seemed to positively throb in time with his own heartbeat. When he finally dared to open his eyes again he looked up to see the Doctor leaning over him, concern etched into his features.

"What did you see?" he asked.

"I..." Bush stared at the Doctor, horrified, unable to speak.

"What did you see?" the Doctor repeated calmly. "Take your time. Think carefully."

"I-I don't know!" Bush murmured, at last finding his voice. He tried to make sense of what had just happened. He had been angry and he had stared into the Doctor's eyes, only to be assaulted by a constant blur of thoughts that had raced through his head with all the force of a hurricane – and those thoughts had not been his own. "A name... b-bigger on the inside..."

"Did it mean anything to you?"

Bush dropped his gaze to the deck, staring at the grain of the planking; anywhere else was better than looking at the Doctor's face at that moment. For the first time in his life William Bush found that he was truly out of his depth, and that made him angry. He concentrated on the anger, letting it eclipse and replace the fear, letting it steady him. Anger was good. He knew where he was with anger.

"I don't know what I saw, what it was or what it means!" he snapped. The lie came quickly to his defence, and he felt himself regaining some semblance of composure. "I don't know and I don't care! I now know, however, exactly what are, sir; you are a mesmerist. A trickster come to bedevil us –"

"Oh no," the Doctor cut short Bush's tirade, a grim smile on his lips. "You don't slide out of it that easily. You're shutting yourself off again, William, crawling back inside that small-minded human brain where it's all nice and safe and cosy, where monsters don't exist and there's a simple explanation for everything. Well I'm having none of that, do you here? Not after it took me so long to draw you out."

"I can find no other explanation," Bush bit back, yet beneath his bravado he was once more unnerved. The things that the Doctor was saying should have been nonsense, should have been nothing but a meaningless babble; yet instead he found he was understanding the concept presented to him, and Bush was appalled by this. "And you have done something to my head, I can feel it! If that was no mesmerism I know not what it was."

"I can assure you it was nothing of the sort," the Doctor said bluntly. "And you know it. What happened then was that we formed a brief telepathic connection; for a moment your mind reached out and touched mine, and I let it see what it wanted to see. I did nothing – save give you a gentle prod in the right direction."

"A gentle prod?" Bush repeated disbelievingly. His head still felt as if it were stuffed with wool.

"Well, more like a kick up the backside."

Bush shut his eyes once more and wished to God that the throbbing in his chest would stop, that this man would go away again, that he could shut his mind and forget what he had just seen. He shook his head violently, as if trying to physically clear the confusion within. Could he truly have seen what he'd thought he saw? All those strange creatures, alien places, a blue cabinet that travelled everywhere and everytime? Impossible things, incredible things, and that name; the name that meant so much to both of them... all perceived simply by his looking into another man's eyes. Impossibility mounted upon improbability, and Bush sank his head into his hands and groaned.

"I know what I'm asking you to accept," the Doctor said softly, placing a comforting hand on Bush's shoulder. "And I know you're frightened, I can understand that. You're choosing to back away instead of face up to what happened – a typically human reaction, and I admit I was unfairly harsh on you just now. Possibly the instinct has been programmed into you from the start to protect you from finding out by accident. But you have to stop thinking like that, William; stop thinking small. Locked inside your head, where you've been able to ignore it all your life, you know that you are much more besides who you are now."

"But what?" Bush asked despairingly, his voice muffled by his fingers. "Who am I?"

"_Who_ you are is not what is being questioned," the Doctor said. "And it never will be, but as to _what_ you are... that, I believe, is what you and I have been afraid to find out."

Bush raised his head and the atmosphere in the small cabin seemed to thicken as the two men regarded each other in silence.

"What would you have me do?" Bush asked finally. His expression was open, admitting defeat.

"Let me help you," the Doctor replied without hesitation. "I've started it off but the process is far from complete, and you won't be safe until it is. There's something here, aboard this ship, that wants to get you whilst you're still vulnerable, and I'm not inclined to let that happen. If you'll let me take you to the TARDIS –"

The Doctor was interrupted by a frantic hammering on the cabin door.

"Sir!" piped the voice of Midshipman Fletcher. "Mr. Bush, sir!"

In that instant the spell was broken. Bush's eyes momentarily snapped away to the door, and when they returned the Doctor knew at once that he had lost him; the shutters had come down once more, Bush's mind was closed to him.

"William –" he began.

"If you don't mind, Dr. Smith," Bush said curtly, his voice like winter ice. "You will vacate my cabin and allow me to go about my duties."

"William, please!" the Doctor begged, but Bush had already picked himself up off the floor and was turning away, reaching for his coat. "Please, listen to me! Don't retreat into yourself again, not now; you've got to fight it. Think about what you saw, what I said –"

"I have listened to you enough, Doctor," Bush snapped coldly, shrugging on his coat and doing it up swiftly. "And I do not care for what I have heard. I would advise you to consider your words more carefully in the future, lest your scientific fancies run away with you."

Within the lieutenant's rigid formality the Doctor could not mistake the implied threat. This round he had lost; but sooner rather than later he would try again, and next time he would not back down for anything.

"Fine," the Doctor said heavily. "Have it your way. But just remember, Mr. Bush; when you need me I will be there, and then we'll see whether you care for what I have to say."

So saying the Doctor stepped to one side, bowing theatrically with a mocking smile on his face. Bush ignored him, and picking up his hat squeezed past and wrenched open the cabin door. Fletcher was standing there with his fist raised to knock again, his eyes wide as he took in the unusually grim figure of the first lieutenant towering over him. The boy must have been wondering at the raised voices within the cabin, but Bush did not give the midshipman the opportunity to ask any questions.

"What is it, Mr. Fletcher?" he growled impatiently. The Doctor peered past Bush and saw that the boy was shaking, clearly upset by something more than the Premier's foul temper.

"The captain sent me, sir," Fletcher rallied and answered immediately, despite his nervous state. "It's Miss Pollard's maid; she's been found in the carpenter's stores – dead, like Dyer!"

There was a beat of silence, in which Bush turned to the Doctor. "You had better come with me," he said stonily.

Bolitho was waiting for them in the carpenter's store with Farley, Fitzpatrick, Watts and McNish. In front of a stacked pile of spare timber lay the pale, still form of Alice Bradbury; curled up exactly as Dyer had been, her eyes closed as if she were only sleeping peacefully. Bolitho's face was grave as he regarded the new arrivals without emotion, and when the Doctor came in after Bush he did not seem even a little surprised by his presence. Judging by his reaction it appeared he had been expecting him.

"Dead?" Bolitho asked the Doctor.

The Doctor took out his stethoscope, kneeling down and listening for a heartbeat as he had done with Dyer, checking carefully for a pulse. Slowly he sat up and removed the earpieces, his face sad as he shook his head. Bolitho gave an infinitesimal nod of understanding.

"Mr. Bush," he said solemnly. "Please go up on deck and inform Mr. Leat of the present circumstances. Mr. Fletcher, you will assist Mr. Farley and Mr. Fitzpatrick in conveying Miss Bradbury to the sickberth, after which you shall place yourself at Mr. Farley's disposal. We shall hold the funeral at eight bells in the morning watch."

The Doctor made to follow Bush, but the captain's voice held him back.

"A moment of your time, Dr. Smith."

The Doctor halted, knowing what would be coming next. He waited calmly as Farley, Fitzpatrick and Fletcher carried Alice's body away. When at last they were alone the Doctor turned to Bolitho, his expression carefully neutral.

"How may I be of assistance, captain?" he asked.

"By telling me what exactly is going on aboard my ship," Bolitho said, lowering his voice to little above a murmur so as not to be overheard. "You promised you would keep me informed as to your investigations into the case of Dyer; I wish to know your findings."

"You seem certain that I have made some progress," the Doctor commented coolly.

"It is more than obvious that you have," Bolitho replied. "My officers have informed me that you have been asking questions of themselves and the crew, from which they have concluded that your understanding of the situation has increased. Incidentally, Mr. Deverel has complained that he is the only one of the wardroom mess that you have not interrogated. He views it as an insult that you do not seem to believe he possesses any information of value."

"And does he?" the Doctor asked mildly.

"I seriously doubt it." Bolitho gave an involuntary grimace. "That aside, Doctor, you were sent by the Admiralty to investigate some matter aboard my ship of which I have remained ignorant, and it is high time that I should know your business."

"My investigations have led me to some conclusive findings," the Doctor admitted. "And I am more than willing to share them with you, captain."

"Then please do so, Doctor," Bolitho prompted, but the Doctor held up a warning hand.

"Not here," he said shortly. "We should go somewhere where we are not in danger of being overheard."

"The Great Cabin, then," Bolitho said without hesitation. "Mine is the only privacy guaranteed aboard this ship."

xoxoxox

Whilst Bolitho and the Doctor were in conference above, below Docker was once more huddled up in the isolated gloom of the cable tier. He was not crying this time; the last few hours had seen him run out of tears to shed, yet he was shaking and muttering under his breath, at war with his own personal demon.

"Why her?" he moaned wretchedly. "Why did it have to be her?"

_It was necessary that I fed._

"But why her?" Docker persisted. "She was harmless, she was no threat to you!"

_She had no function._ It said. _Her death will not affect the command structure aboard this ship._

"But did you have to kill her?" Docker pleaded weakly. "You did not kill Dyer."

_Her physical excess was inferior as well as her energy. Better to take all I could than retain a creature too weak to be of further use._

Docker moaned again, burying his head in his arms. By now he knew the full extent of It's plans, and how it intended to go about executing them. He did not want to help It, knew that they were all doomed should it succeed in getting what it wanted, and there was nothing he could do to stop It. He couldn't even keep It from killing.

_The same applies to the children of your species aboard,_ It continued. _Too weak to satisfy my need. My prey must be strong and must be chosen with care so as not to alert the Doctor as to my movements – until, of course, it is too late for him to act._

"Then nothing will stop you," Docker whispered.

_You are upset at the loss of the female._ It said sharply. _You should not be. It is not your concern what I have you do, only that you must do it._

"And what if I do not?" Docker hissed back fiercely, a sudden streak of rebellion rising in him. "What if I refuse to obey you?"

It laughed.

_You have no other option. Either you obey me, or you die._

"And what if I die?"

_I will not be harmed. I should find another host to conceal me, and you will have died for nothing. But before you die I will hurt you, and you will have wished you'd obeyed._

All at once every single nerve in his body seemed to be on fire, and Docker could not help but cry out as a white-hot pain seared across his vision. Then just as soon as it had started the pain stopped and he was left lying curled up on the deck, still gasping at the agony that had gripped his frame.

_Do we understand one another?_ It asked.

Docker could do little else but nod. The pain was slowly leaving his body, but the pain of defeat was just as bad, if not worse.

_Good. I intend to vacate you in favour of the Anomaly when I am prepared: we need waste no more time discussing the matter._

"Mr. Docker? Sir? Are you alright?"

Docker gasped and sat up sharply, fear coursing through his veins. From out of the darkness there had come a small, high-pitched voice and as he stared into the gloom he saw that one of the ship's boys – Button, he thought his name was – was standing in the doorway to the cable tier and was gaping at him with wide, surprised eyes. Inside him Docker felt It shuddering, recoiling further into his mind as if stung.

_Send it away!_ It hissed. _It must not know I am here!_

It was then that Docker realised that it was not his own fear he was feeling – Why would be be afraid of Button? – but It's fear. It was afraid of discovery, even by such a puny creature as Button, which meant It was more vulnerable at the moment than Docker supposed: and that meant there was hope for the crew yet. But how to let Button know something was wrong without arousing It's suspicions? He was fairly certain It could not read his thoughts – which gave him a chance.

"Of course I'm alright!" he snapped, making Button shiver. "What makes you think I'm not?"

"I, I heard someone cry out, sir," Terry Button said timidly. "An' you're not looking well -"

"I'm not unwell!" Docker rose from the floor and advanced on Button, just as he'd done earlier that evening with Fletcher before this had all begun. "Does it look like I'm unwell?"

"No, sir, I mean... You're really not looking well –" Button persisted, though he was quaking all the way down to his dirty bare feet, but Docker didn't let him get any further. He loomed over and bared his teeth in a threatening grimace.

"Damn your insolence! Get out of here before I tell Mr. Bush that you've been idling away down here where you'd hope no one'd find you. Bet he'll have Foxley cane you at four bells in the Last Dog Watch if he thinks you've been shirking!"

"But, sir –"

"Get out!"

Button fled. Docker refrained from breathing a sigh of relief, knowing he'd done his work. He'd sent the message: now he only hoped that someone would interpret it properly. He did not have long to his own thoughts, though, as It made its presence felt again.

_You have been incautious!_ It growled. _Surely he will tell someone of your threat to him?_

"He won't," Docker said coolly, with a confidence he did not feel. "He is too frightened to tell anyone. The prospect of me telling Mr. Bush will scare him stiff."

_You are certain?_

"Absolutely," Docker said, and prayed that this would not be the case. It was true; Button was five years younger than himself and at times easily intimidated, yet Docker was counting on the boy telling someone of his unusual behaviour down here and the unorthodox phrasing of his threat. Then hopefully that someone would tell someone else, until soon the tale would reach the ears of the Doctor. Because if it did not, Docker thought miserably, there was no hope left for any of them.

xoxoxox

In the Great Cabin Bolitho and the Doctor sat at opposite ends of the stern bench, watching the churned-up white water of the _Terpsichore's_ wake disappear into the distance. Charley they were certain was asleep, but even so they were careful to limit the volume of their conversation.

"What is it you wish to know, captain?" the Doctor had begun.

"Firstly I want confirmation of a rumour," Bolitho replied, pouring himself a measure of port wine from the decanter he had fetched from the sideboard. He offered the Doctor a glass, which was politely refused. "I am informed by Mr. Leat that earlier this evening you confided in him that you were expecting trouble of this sort. Is he correct?"

"The ever reliable Mr. Leat," the Doctor muttered scornfully. The second lieutenant certainly didn't miss a trick. "Yes, I was expecting trouble. I told you as much when we came aboard; I just did not know then when or what form that trouble would take."

"But you know now, I take it?"

"I would say that I do, yes."

"Then tell me," Bolitho said. The Doctor glanced down and noticed Bolitho's long, slender fingers were wrapped tightly around the glass. He had not yet touched the port.

"What I have to say is sensitive, captain," the Doctor said, raising his gaze to Bolitho's face once more. "And in some places defies creduality."

Bolitho nodded.

"I had suspected as much. I would hear it anyway."

"Very well." The Doctor shifted, seating himself more comfortably. "It is my belief, captain, that you have a hostile stowaway aboard your ship and that it is responsible for the attacks on Dyer and Miss Bradbury."

There was a beat of silence, in which Bolitho toyed distractedly with his glass. He still did not drink any of the port.

"So it is foul play," he said finally. "Not disease? I am relieved to hear it, if 'relief' is the correct word to be used in such a case. Disease I had little hope of fighting; a physical enemy there is every hope of conquering."

"I would not be declaring victory just yet, if I were you," the Doctor said gravely. "The nature of this stowaway is... highly unusual to say the least. It is not human, for a start."

"You mean an animal?" Bolitho frowned.

"Close enough. A creature from another planet; a completely alien lifeform."

There was another silence in which the captain downed his port in one go.

"I did say that it would defy creduality," the Doctor said, watching Bolitho's features closely as the captain poured himself another glass. Bolitho sighed, shaking his head.

"What worries me, Doctor, is that I believe you!" Bolitho said. "No one saw the thing that struck Dyer, and Miss Bradbury's death is equally inexplicable. Your explanation, sir, in that light makes perfect sense. Not to mention I would rather believe it to be a real creature, albeit from another world, than a ghoul or some similar piece of superstitious hokum."

"It's a very good logic in that light," the Doctor agreed, surprised and relieved that Bolitho had been so quick to accept the truth. He had not expected it to be at all easy.

"The only logic possible, I think," Bolitho said. He drank from his glass again, but to the Doctor's relief only took a sip this time; the captain was master of himself once more. "And it explains the underhand manner in which you conduct your work. I expect the Admiralty has a department set up to deal with such matters; mine cannot be the only ship to have suffered such an invasion in the past."

The Doctor gave Bolitho a sheepish smile, once again glad that the captain had provided his own answer to the question.

"I am not at liberty to say," he said apologetically. Bolitho waved a dismissive hand.

"What matters is that you have confided in me on this," he said. "Though in any other circumstance your story would beggar belief."

He got up from the stern bench, putting his glass down on the sideboard before he walked round the desk to face the Doctor, resting his fists on the edge of the desk.

"I take it you have a strategy prepared to deal with this creature?" Bolitho asked crisply.

"I have," replied the Doctor.

"You will have a suggestion, then, as to what course of action I should take."

"Yes. You have to turn the ship about, captain; take her back to port where she can be emptied of the crew and thoroughly searched."

"Turn the ship about?" Bolitho echoed.

"Yes."

"Impossible."

"Captain, I know it is contrary to your current orders, but I would not suggest it were it not the only way."

"Doctor," Bolitho began, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in an expression of exasperation. "I know that the Admiralty has given you _carte blanche_ over myself and my officers, but I am directly responsible to my men and my Admiral. My orders were to seek out a rogue French frigate which could potentially wreak havoc amongst the supply ships for our army in Portugal. Once I have found her I am either to take her as a prize or sink her. What, would you say, would be my Admiral's reaction were I to tell him I broke off my pursuit of the enemy on the basis of your word that my ship contains a dangerous alien fugitive? Where I believe you I am certain he would not!"

"If you don't do as I ask," the Doctor said firmly. "You shall not have to explain it to your Admiral: you and your ship will never make it back to the squadron, or anywhere else for that matter. That is the only alternative to concern yourself with, captain. Turn back if you want your men to live."

"You think this creature will strike again?"

"I am certain of it."

Bolitho held the Doctor's gaze and perceived the utmost seriousness within his expression. Bolitho straitened from where he was leaning against the edge of the desk, strode across the cabin and opened the door.

"Pass the word for the Master," he ordered. A tense moment followed as the two of them waited whilst the Marine sentry outside called: "Mr. Tadcock to the Great Cabin!" Tadcock duly arrived and Bolitho turned back to his desk, his attention fixing on the chart he had left laid out there earlier that evening.

"Mr. Tadcock, on the Doctor's advice tomorrow we will make for the nearest friendly port. Have the ship hove to for the night, then after the funeral of Miss Pollard's maid we shall head for Oporto."

"Aye, sir," Tadcock said, quite obviously surprised by the captain's unusually abrupt manner and the sudden change of destination. The Doctor looked at Bolitho sharply.

"Would not Lisbon be closer?"

"In terms of distance, Doctor, certainly." It was Tadcock that replied. "But with this wind it could take us nigh on a week to beat back to Lisbon, whereas with the wind fair from the south east Oporto is the only real option."

"How long?"

"Two days, maybe less if we have a good run."

"Too long!" the Doctor muttered, shaking his head.

"It is the best we can do," Bolitho said shortly. "There is nowhere else safe to go. A captain may be next to God aboard his ship, but I can't work miracles. In the meantime I suggest you break the news of Miss Bradbury's death to Miss Pollard. Hopefully she will have some suitable attire aboard for attending a funeral."

xoxoxox

Muster the following morning aboard the _Terpsichore_ was an usually solemn occasion, as the familiar everyday ceremony led almost seamlessly into the funeral of Alice Bradbury. Captain Bolitho had read the burial service with dignified solemnity, the hands standing about with their hats removed and heads bowed. They had sewn Alice up in a hammock, Mr Leat very kindly offering to do what little he could beforehand to prepare her for the grave, she had been slid over the side of the _Terpsichore_ with as much dignity as possible, the two iron shot placed at her feet ensuring that her journey to the bottom of the sea was swift, the white bundle disappearing beneath the waves without a trace.

The crew dismissed, the men went back to their duties and the small party made up of officers, the Doctor and Charley on the quarterdeck broke apart into smaller groups, some private words exchanged briefly before parting. The Doctor took Charley aside, a supporting arm under her elbow.

"Are you alright?" he murmured.

"I'll be fine in a moment," Charley said. She sniffed, hoping that she would not start crying. She always did her best not to cry at funerals, but when it had come to the Lord's Prayer the sight of every member of the crew reciting the words with such simple sincerity had very nearly destroyed her composure entirely. "Oh, Doctor it's all my fault! If I hadn't sent her away like that -"

"There still would have been every probability she would have been killed in some other way," the Doctor continued. He shook his head sadly. "No, it wasn't your fault Charley. If anyone's to blame it's me – I engaged her to come along in the first place, too busy thinking about making our story convincing to consider the potential consequences."

"Don't say that!" Charley protested, in between sniffs. "You couldn't have possibly known."

"Couldn't I?" the Doctor said bitterly, angry with himself. "I'm a Timelord, Charley, I should be able to prevent this sort of thing; but no. I chose to ignore the danger, thinking only what fun it all would be – you and I playing a fine lady and gentleman – and look what happens. I'm as much to blame as the Shade. I put her in harm's way."

"We will stop this thing, won't we Doctor?" Charley asked quietly, laying a gentle hand on the Doctor's arm. The Doctor looked down at Charley, and the expression in his eyes softened.

"Yes," he said. "We will stop it, Charley. Whatever it takes, I will stop it."

Over on the opposite side of the quarterdeck Bush was discreetly watching the Doctor and Charley. He saw the Doctor take her elbow, and then with a stab of jealousy watched Charley place her hand on his arm and in turn look at him with that expression of absolute trust on her face. He did not deserve her, Bush thought bitterly. The Doctor took her for granted, that much he had determined from his conversation with Charley last night, and it was only at times like this that he remembered her. There was no question that Miss Pollard adored her guardian, though: he had listened to her talk about him as 'the most wonderful man I have ever known' and knew that she believed it to be true. His heart had ached to hear it, but knew that there was nothing he could say to her. She was the Doctor's, for a time, until he eventually betrayed her trust – and then Bush feared that by then it would be too late for her.

Leat came and joined his fellow lieutenant from the quarterdeck rail, a small hessian bag cradled in his arms which he had earlier been handed by the armourer, along with a piece of paper he had glanced over and then put in his breeches pocket. Ship's business, no doubt, and Bush did not feel in a mood to enquire further. His head ached terribly. Since his encounter with the Doctor the night before he had been feeling somewhat peculiar, to say the least. Something had happened to him, of that he was certain, but he could not put a name to it nor think of how it had happened. Time after time his thoughts returned to what he had glimpsed in the Doctor's mind, mulling over constantly every sound and image, and it made him feel no better when he realised that he could ifeel/i himself thinking on a whole new level. He had never been much of a thinker before now, and so it nothing less than disturbed him to find he could not stop thinking.

He thought also of the expression that had been there in the Doctor's eyes when Fletcher had informed them of Alice Bradbury's death. _What did I tell you? It's started,_ it had said. Bush had known it almost as clearly as if the Doctor had said it aloud – and to be honest he wasn't exactly sure if the Doctor had spoken or not. More mind games, more tricks...

"A terrible business," Leat said, breaking into Bush's train of thought. Bush inwardly sighed with relief, happy to be given something to distract his overactive mind.

"Terrible, yes," he replied simply. "I notice that Chase very much shared Miss Pollard's grief."

Leat nodded.

"He was sweet on the girl; been looking out for her since she first came aboard. I'll speak to him later – there's no point in him feeling guilt for something he could not prevent."

Bush murmured his agreement. Jacob Chase was a wholly honest fellow, unusual amongst seamen, and a valued member of the lower deck. Doubtless he would be blaming himself, thinking of ways he might have protected the girl from harm and Bush knew from first hand experiences how such thoughts could destroy a man. Leat would talk some sense into him as his Divisional officer; Chase's messmates would do the rest.

"Is there any further news as to what caused her death?" Leat asked. Bush shook his head.

"None, though I believe the Doctor knows more than he is prepared to let on."

Bush had half been suspecting Leat to object to such an observation as he had yesterday, but to Bush's surprise the second lieutenant merely glanced furtively in the Doctor's direction, his expression turning grim.

"I am inclined to agree with you," he said, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. "And I'm no longer sure we can count him as an ally. Here."

Leat placed the sack on the deck and undid the string around its neck. He reached inside and withdrew his hand swiftly, something clutched in his fist. He palmed it to Bush, his eyes once more darting this way and that to make sure they were not observed.

"Take this. Keep it on you at all times, as a precaution."

Puzzled, Bush looked down and opened his hand. His eyes went wide with disbelief when he saw what he was holding.

"Ned," he said, forgetting all formality in his bewilderment. "Do you think me a fool?"

"Never in life," Leat said earnestly. "And give me the courtesy to believe I am no fool either. Something is going on, William; something beyond the realms of rationality, and above all I fear for you. The Doctor is somehow at the heart of this and he has taken a special interest in you, which means that you are in grave danger. I thought he might be someone to trust, but now I believe he is working to his own agenda and I am not sure as to where his interests lie. All I am certain of is that when the time comes reason alone will not save us."

"And this will?" Bush demanded.

"Trust me, William," Leat pleaded, his hands closing Bush's fingers firmly around the object. "As a brother officer, as your friend: trust me to know what I am talking about. Trust me to do what is right."


End file.
